Dreams of dispossession

In my dreams,

sandwiched between forbidden loves

And incestuous wars,

I dream of dispossession

Of cold posters plastered over my home,

Declaring me a fugitive of exile,

Of rusted rifles guarding empty hearths

waiting for new occupants,

who arrive in shuttered buses

holding papers

dipped in

cold black ink
confirming peace

Of the old occupants,

all that remains are old books and

memories razed and blotted by pressed blood

In time, I will be an Iberian Jew

Cast-out and doomed to roam

The earth, till one day when I

Too shall cut open the last stitches holding

Me together and drive others to exile

They say when Azra’il comes

For the sinner’s soul, he rips it apart

Like Muslin drawn through a rose-thorn bush

Let me bargain with death tonight

And desecrate its oblivion

To conjure a map of home

From the memories of my ancestors

From my grandfather, who died too young

From his father, who sits turbaned in the family album

From his father who lived at the bottom of a hill

All the way before nine syllables were spoken

And gods were found in polished stones

I have always been envious of people

Who can commit to being inked

Even when it is misspelt Chinese alphabets

Or barely understood Latin phrases

People who can commit to other languages

They barely speak or understand

Offering strangers glimpses into their souls,

The spaces between their bare pentagrams,

summoning non-existent demons,

to exorcise old wounds through the

Tyranny of ink

I try escaping from the dream

And she pins it down its hem

Under her stilettoes

As it unfurls in front of me

Like a winter morning fog over the Dal

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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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