In Karachi,
Nightfallslikeyourhair.
I sit and braid it as I count,
So many knitted sadnesses,
Covering a mind full,
Of remembered happiness.
Wavy strands extend as:
Khayabans and avenues,
Maps on maps on maps.
The map of these roads when I was a child.
Streetlights soft and yellow
I drew them, dreaming in the back of the car.
Then the map of these
Half deserted streets. I charted them,
With hands that had been touched by you.
Today they are
Mapped onto my memory,
Like verses memorised years ago.
I drive through them reciting to myself
Routes. Rumi. Paths, Plath.
Routes. Rumi. Paths, Plath.
Every metre makes me sicker.
In the glowing neon supermarket I tow
A cartful of playscripts, poems, trophies
Praying for no one to see me
Trying to gather the ingredients
To re-make my name.
In every aisle I think I see You
And you, and you, and you.
The night’s locks grow tighter ’round my neck.
In the car,
I tell myself
I have forgotten the path to school.
Until I wake up there
Cold and scared and bare
Beneath the midnight moon,
Begging the walls
To.Stop.Singing.My.Name.
Almost home, the trees
Pull me into their embrace.
The trees are dark oracles, they trace
The inscriptions on their leaves.
Depicting all
That is and was, and almost meant to be.
All diverging branches carry leaves and leaves of swaying stories beckoning me.
I close my eyes.
The trees whisper :
This night, this tree, this leaf,
Will never be the same again.
The trees hand me bundles of moons:
White jasmines,
I braid them into your hair,
The night’s hair.
Jasmines bloom, to perfume, tomorrow, and tonight.
Artwork by:Abbott Handerson Thayer
