My death won't be covered

No obits, no pictures

No profiles with a catalogue of dreams

No 3000 word essays in the New Yorker

Maybe an inch in the local paper

My death wont be covered

I am not sexy enough

I am not white enough

I am not interesting enough

Unless they can pin something on me

My death won't be covered

My blood isn't red enough

My grief isn't relatable enough

My life isn't worth enough

Maybe it is not fashionable enough

My death won't be covered

Public executions don't draw crowds

Private ones cost a fortune

Poverty is a boon after all

Not everyone has company in the grave after all

My death won't be covered

I don't have a name or even a number

I don't have a home or even a shroud

I don't have a bomb or even a cause

Or a mortgage to buy a few minutes of respite

My death won't be covered

And i won't even be remembered

But my oppressor will be celebrated

His pain will be taught in schools

While,

My death won't be covered

And I won't even be remembered

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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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