The stone-pelter's lullaby

Mou’ji, sing me a lullaby tonight

Too many faces made of white smoke

Smother me when I close my eyes

My dreams are on a leash, and

Olive green monsters stalk my breaths

Mou’ji, sing me a lullaby

Mou’ji, burn my clothes while I sleep

Too many friends have bled on the Shirt,

You brought for me when Eid last came

For when the demons come for me,

Let them never handle threads sanctified by blood

Mou’ji, burn my clothes while I sleep

Mou’ji, take away and bury my school books

My classroom is now a sandbag bunker

My fingers will trace words in the dark now

Every page full of the names of the dead

One by one, till I am one of them

Mou’ji, take away and bury my school books

Mou’ji, don’t cry when they bring me home

For even if there is no heaven, I refuse to be choked

My hands are scarred from the edges of stones

But iron chains are heavier still

Even when gilded with fool’s gold

Mou’ji, don’t cry when they bring me home

* Mou'ji - Kashmiri for mother

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The Empty Apartment

I draw a deep breath, An empty chair sits in the corner Hastily scribbled notes scattered Around the desk, abandoned Like lilacs in battle filed Wandering eyes rest among the Clumped clothes, a black sequined Scarf pokes pathetically from Among the ruins of our lives, Staring at me, accusing me A half-eaten apple still Sits on the top the fridge, next To the owl totems from the time We visited the dead shaman, You used believe in -- The movers are here, Walking up the narrow stairs Stomping feet leaving shoe marks, You so hate, across the Floor, Our floor The empty boxes laid in front of me Forcing decisions I never wanted To make, what to keep and what To ditch, how much luggage to leave For the insidious new occupants -- Tz

Some Other Time

We will be counting days again, till we say hello again— only for us to say goodbye again. We always knew we’d have to say our goodbyes one day. Then why does it hurt so? Even so, when we know it won’t be long before even goodbyes are a luxury. We cling to hopes— that this isn’t the only life we will live. That one day, we will meet again, in some other life, in some other time, where we won’t have to say G oodbye.

Zulaikha’s Lament

Blotted and Stained Like blood on apples, My reputation remains in tatters After these years But what was a woman to do? -- He had the face of An angel His shoulders, A sculptors dream His eyes, spoke a million languages his lips, like daggers driven apart -- I grew outside of Cairo Unloving father and sad mother Sold me for a goat and A bag of gold To the first merchant who They came across -- My Husband, Kind, Generous man Made me his wife And put me along with Thirteen others -- My Husband, Kind Generous man Kept me happy Visited me twice a month Blessing me with His drunken kisses and Impotent rage -- I was never sad What more could A woman want? Lots of wealth and An impotent husband Sex was a chore The price of being so glad -- Then he came Chained and covered with dust Another man from the Slave traders den He stood at the gate Neither sad nor in jest Even at a distance...

Tasenda

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