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
dozing
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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