room for grey

my eyes are tired of
staying open, of reading the black and white
newspaper. There is no room
for grey here.
my eyes are sunken,
pressed inwards at the sound of
humming white silences away.

I am weary from my travels, tired
of staying awake and finding little comfort
in small words across
the desert, the exotic place I am supposed to be.
but it is the white silence, the ever growing
piles of snow and light feathers
that have driven me to hum old tunes,
to shut these eyes
and sleep the white away.

Awake

I am answering telephones in my sleep,
writing poetry in my sleep
with misspelled words, awkward
colourful phrases in drowsy disarray.
I need some career advice
as I wake up for fajr
trying to keep these various strings
together in knots, but like african hair
there are split ends abound.
In my sleep I wonder what kind of conditioner
would join these severed ends, would knot these threads together.

I am awake. Looking for breakfast
in the closet, pancakes laced with moth balls, shoe polish,
remember to feed the pet fish its
marinated self, fried to perfection. A drowsy disarray
of walking into things, various things
and realizing only a few hours later
that I am in pain.

aging

I am 21 years old and soon
I will forget what it is like to be free
and will feel that desperate
clawing of time at my throat, see the fine
scratches of moments near my veins, wasted
in pursuit of a full heart.

We are shards, pieces, and I’ve whispered this
to myself in the depths of aging nights,
into the warmth of old towels, drying my hair
and seeds of hope,
whispering that I will be late, later than
most girls my age to
wrap my heart in prayer beads.

I am coming home slowly, afraid
of leaving God out of it while I
try to fix me.
I may be too weak to
carry myself forward,
to plant this pocket full of seeds in
wet places and sunlight.

unrequited

he pines for her, but she is married now.

he watches her photos, slides with
her lovely curled hair down to her shoulders
and lace wedding dress that fits just so.
they are smiling into the lens,
clutching straw baskets of laughter and petals.

and he is wistful, blows warm breath into
his gloveless palms,
peers quietly through trees at
their happiness with a glow of
adultered remembrance.
he will never allow himself
to admit (out loud)
that he’s loved her for these eight years.

but they are old now.
she is happy now.

and he,
he still looks for moments of happiness
through evergreens, beyond thick measures
of forest,
never daring to use the word I.