Untitled

 

I look up, again, at the cold moon

pressing its face against the windowpane,

sucking the edges of the corner table,

closing the language door.

 

In sleep,

I am walking to the graveyard

waking every insect

not in sight.

 

And mornings

always full of father

splitting an anthology of breaths,

now capable only of bloodline

in my wife’s womb.

 

The moon won’t use the door, only the window.
– Mawlana Jalal ad-Din Muhammad Rumi

(Feb 2017)
Italics | Rephrased from Mawlana Jalal ad-Din Muhammad Rumi (translation by Coleman Barks)

 

Around Silvered Lapses

 

              On sister’s birthday, to Sana

Little wheel-like things crisscross

on city midnights, and

where I coil this

nothing tracks down to you.

In fifteen years

I have not pinched orange skin,

snarled at by an amnesiac cat, or hid

between parents’ quilts.

It’s permanent to have you

traffic-spotting behind that green gate,

your small head next to mother’s waist

in holly patterns on the kitchen wall,

still clay-parrots on the windowsill

a blink away before you sleep,

on an unexpected rainy afternoon,

for healthiness, I confused

a bitter pill into your mouth:

at the mouth of thinkings gallery

not all hours are full of fears.

Where I coil this,

frayed white sleeve-edges scuff

distinct hair on my wrists,

like hasty men of conurbations

brush faces on local trains,

a camouflage of time in my bedroom,

every day of this year, sheds skin:

my other half is a condensery of lost language,

consisting of you.

(Nov 5 – Nov 8, 2009)