inheritance

dying is
cold
quick
hot and slow.
or so they say.

dying is a
removal from earth,
the soul’s departure from body;
a snuff, quiet
moment in the grand scheme of things,
leaving us out in winter with
slow motion grief.

dying is
a final grade
a seal
an end to end all endings.
beautiful
ugly
brilliant and
dark.

I wonder how it is that we die
leaving behind trinkets of a past existence
while those who live
inherit our cheap collectibles
instead of wisdom.

numb

I am losing you every day
within the vague ripples of memory,
over the sharp edges of regret.
You are slipping through the shuffling
of papers and falling to the ground unnoticed.
My clumsy disposition and awkward hands
lose their grip on you.

The quiet that follows your departure
is loud, angry, insatiable. It shocks my
logical mind to believe that silence
can be this loud.

And amongst their hushed words
and worried expressions
I am alone, but looking for excuses to
be in the midst of chaos and crowds. Perhaps their exuberance
will numb my longing.
Perhaps the sounds will momentarily fill the
collapsed spaces in my heart
so I can breathe again.

Solo

The jostling on the bus in congested rush hour
renders her clumsy body at the mercy of the wheel and gravity.

She is lost amongst sweaty palms and unpleasantly loud voices,
between the bodies exiting and entering her life.

The vehicle swerves and she leans to one side;
her thoughts lack dexterity and balance.

And her knuckles are taut and white as she holds onto
the fading images of your smile.

I dream from the corners of sadness in my heart
a place where you are and I am,
but I’m sitting at the back of the auditorium
and you at the front.

I can’t tell what you’re thinking
as you stand up and say “I do”
to her.

wake up to this

These mornings are tangled with
the scent of your suit jacket around my shoulders,
images of the shy curve of your lips, and
the sound of your deep laughter.

Quiet smiles follow me throughout the day,
hiding in the shadows and appearing when I least expect them.
I’ve tried to shake you from my thoughts,
but you’ve stapled yourself to the pages of my days.

And these nights end with my raised palms,
asking Allah to bless me
with a life full of the tenderness in you.

folding

I am folding shirts
how he showed me; pressing the sleeves back first.
Here we have regular cotton shirts,
brown and faded navy blue.
Soft to the touch, draped over bare shoulders.

My hands shake with disappointment
as I fold. I wanted to make them perfect,
but my folding is lopsided
and awkward.

I found him in those shirts;
the scent of ambition imbued in tender fabrics.
But they must be returned, and I am as well
returned to God with the same empty palms I was born with.

home

Silence greets us
walking through the door.

The clutter in my heart
is superimposed by the
upheaval of your departure.

I sit on the sidelines of my life,
my legs crossed at the ankles and
head tilted to one side.
My fingers are crossed, not for luck,
but because I have nothing else to hold
and so I hold myself in my palms.

If I was to let go and allow my hands
to lay limply at my sides, I fear I would
go everywhere at once.
The molecules that make up this skin
would escape and scatter like a man’s ashes
poured over the river’s torrent.

I am a non-participant. This is like
a clip out of a slow movie; I sit
in the bleachers and do nothing.
My feet rest on the red gravel path
and I think, perhaps I will take a run around
the track as I wait for the game to end.

tea with sea

I asked my heart this afternoon
if it would like a cup of tea,
it said I would, I really would
but only near the sea.

I took her to the seashore
and offered her a sip.
I would, I would, I really would
but only on a ship.

I bought just one boarding ticket
(for she is inside of me)
and asked her to taste this orange pekoe
but she refused my plea.

Jump in, Jump in, and then I’ll drink,
my promise is complete!
I gazed towards the open sea
and undid the fetters from my feet.

I am losing sight of you
amongst bustling commuters, and between
the fingers over my eyes.

losing you is like waking from
a brief dream,
like wiping the dust
that accumulates in corners,
but never quite getting it all.

losing you is knowing
it will rain tomorrow, and that I need
rubber boots.
It is not finishing
a book and leaving the bookmark
in the middle for months.

I am slowly losing sight of you
in busy markets and
amidst crowded thoughts,
silently watching the tips of your grey hair
reflecting some lone rays of sun.