Friday, July 2, 2010

It’s Your Marmalade House

where the goats are the sentries

Tonight’s turnip stew
is burning
while you read a masnavi
lying on a rope cot

I’m on a rickety stool
threatening to break
prayer beads

I break your fountain pen
wipe off the ink on your curtains
and with the celerity of a djinn
climb the roof

causing dusty pigeons to flutter

From here I see kites teasing
fallen feathers
I see our sentries

Look how my suddenness
has tripped time itself

for the house
was sold
twenty years ago when you died.

By Shadab Zeest Hashmi

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