The Veil

Mele 71 Kate Mele The Veil 1. To see them is not to see them. The veiled teachers chauffeured to the school gate. From them we learn geometry, how to finger the oboe in the quiet room of dusk. Because of them I become a chemist & still, in the street, I must wear it. I have memorized the veil, the full length black rustling of it. Black web at the face, even the kohl-eyes covered. Heirloom. They tell me it can be very feminine if worn in the right fashion. 2. In a hidden quarter of the city I serve him tea, routinely. We pretend it is evening. Veil & lab coat discarded, I move among candlelit shadows. A magazine lies open on his bare knees. He is tracing the silky seams of a woman's legs. The house where his wife lives is hushed. Sometimes, the female laughter floats down from the shaded upper levels into the garden as he conducts business. If only he could touch her, he whispers to me. 3. At twilight the interior of my house resembles a photographer's negative—all marble & echo. My little girls turn toward Mecca, white veils quickly tossed over play clothes. They disappear bending at the window. Reappear. Bend again in prayer. Hurrying across the street, I watch them. I am late, climb through the underbrush of lemon & olive to the back gate remembering: "It is a good omen. You were born with the veil covering your face," the old woman told me. "You will never drown." 72 the minnesota review But I cannot tear the caul from my mouth, cannot tell my daughters how grown women wake from their dreams, sUp away before dawn to be only the scent of jasmine, a thin gold bracelet left behind on the bedside table. I cannot teU my daughters that night will close over them & they will press their hands against it & feel nothing. ...