hanai

my grandmother's name was muna

they called her mna,

she had eyes greener 

than the mint she pressed

into her husbands tea,

hands small as a child's,

stronger than a soldier's

five foot, maybe

if she stretched

she was

a woman

married a boy she knew her entire life,

a pilot's wife, ear constantly tuned towards the radio

for signs of accidents in the sky

slept with her head on his shoulder every night

she was

a wife

life spent in a constant cycle of

kneading, nourishing, and loving

birthed nine children,

two who's faces the next moon

never saw,

countless others

lost in utero,

she loved them all,

painfully

she was a mother

never learned to read,

but taught her daughters

a woman must learn to do everything

told time by the way the light

hit the wall

worked with her elbows, knees,

and neck

broke her back

to erect the spine

of a home

she never slept in

taught her daughters

to love with their entire body

but her sons

she loved from a place

low in her stomach,

that roared up and welled over,

that stretched across oceans,

riding on tides

hard and deep,

some nights they still say her name

in their sleep

she was amazing

i never knew her

i only have the stories

about her eyes,

how they were 

green

greener than the na'anah

she put in her tea,

greener than the sea 

in winter

greener than the grass

in the month before summer,

when the sun comes to make everything dry

i only have the stories

about how her hair 

was two black braids that hung to her waist,

and the way she sat when she ate.

i never knew her

so i wrote a poem

so i could feel 

like i know her

my grandmother's name was muna

and they called her mna