Hedy Habra

First Bra

I remember when I turned eleven how my mother panicked: “Your cousin Coco is nine and has already lemon-sized breasts!”  I didn’t think lemons were pretty sprouting on one’s chest but Coco’s lemons were her mother’s pride and my mother’s despair.

I can still see the shimmer of my first bra, whose sole purpose was to maintain hope for better days as an amulet in fertility rites or a conjurer of seasonal rains.

Its layers of sheer nylon made me shiver when I’d feel them sliver between my fingers.  I’d wash it with great care using soft soap foam as though its airiness carried arcane messages yet to decipher while I wore it against my flesh.

In French, soutien-gorge means support for the chest, 

or throat.  That must be why my voice became hoarse every time I slipped it underneath my clothes.

First published by Poet Lore

From Tea in Heliopolis (Press 53 2013)

Or How I Raised Havoc Behind the Convent’s Rod Iron Gate

The nuns lodged me in the disaffected pharmacist’s

pavilion that looked like a tree house 

accessed by a spiral staircase. 

A short drive away from Beirut’s sweltering humidity, 

the mountain’s cool dryness enabled

me to focus on my finals. 

I rose at the early hours of dawn to study

before having breakfast 

with the congregation. 

Back to my desk, my struggle with double bind

formulas, medicinal interactions 

defining the fine lines between

effective and toxic dose was soothed with trills, 

cicadas’ mating lament echoing through pines.

The day’s only distraction 

was when a novice would appear holding a tray

with fresh lemonade and cookies.   

After dinner, I’d tell stories to the young novices,

  so young they were dazzled by my own

versions of half-forgotten fairy tales. 

I don’t know how we started listening to music

and ended up singing folk songs. 

Some took turns to climb the mulberry trees

offering me the bejeweled fruits 

palms dripping with purple juice, 

staining their habit with laughter. 

The day I left, they accompanied me all the way

to the main gate. I felt a pang in my chest. 

I can still see their faces fading behind

 the rod iron as I waved goodbye. 

The girls’ eyes seemed to want to follow me as though

someone had snatched a book 

they hadn’t had time to finish reading.

First published by Peacock Journal

 

Though it Still Appears to Be a Dream

Pensionnat de la Mère de Dieu, Cairo, Egypt, 1962

We weren’t allowed to talk

in line, nor run in hallways. 

Never allowed to wear any traces

of makeup or nail polish...

Yet, when our last year ended

we were entitled to a farewell ritual, 

free to roam for an entire night

between the courtyard and the adjacent gym

without uniforms, without supervision. 

Though it still appears to be a dream,

we sat around a small campfire

just like the one we’d read about

in stories of bonding.

We sang bawdy songs till dawn

voices hoarser as we braved

barriers and raised the pitch. 

The ghosts of Brel, Brassens, Ferrat

and Ferré anointed us troubadours 

of the night. I can still see sparks flicker,

glimpses of smiles, not a single

face alight, just a scene broken 

down into fragments.

Exhausted, we must have slipped 

in silence inside our sleeping bags,

oblivious of the dusty smell 

rising from the hardwood floor, 

the gym horses casting shadows

over the walls of our dreams.

Did the nuns watch us through lowered

blinds running their fingers

over rosary beads? Perhaps reminiscing

about the forked paths faced

at our age. When I’d complain, 

my mother always said I should be grateful

I had so much more freedom 

than she ever dreamt of.

First published by Nimrod Literary Journal