Zoha Sh. By Zoha Sh.
The city is a threat. Frozen canals overflowing with siren
calls of swan song etched between the railroad
tracks me through flashing
memory is bridges beckoning I go
through 27 stages of decision in the split
second before the traffic lights turn
left the city is a cliff’s edge.
The sky’s too gold tonight and the need to pray for
a sin returns,
palms enclosed while hands with havens are
daring me to fall.
There’s a couple on the park bench bathed in
yellow light,
sharing food like a secret and I’m thinking
I want a home like that
but mine has kitchen knives in the second drawer
that are experts in manipulation.
In mornings I’m awoken by lingering ceiling
fans and bathtubs and the hopes look too
much like the nightmares
and anyway there are 42 unanswered emails on
my phone.
What do you do when the future is out to betray you?
I can hear the white noise of its trepidation,
a ticking bomb in the dark
jeering at its own destruction.
There’s a memory of my mother coming to pick me
up, stepping out of the car just to hug me in
greeting.
In the dark moments I play it back like a tape
recording, think
there’s too much love. It would be easier if there
wasn’t,
focus on the lack instead, think of the park bench
instead, cling to
anything that justifies the whispers.
The city is a tidal wave of looming known unknowns
and I’m a hostage of delusionary convictions,
drowning in too little of too much love
until surrender is ashore with inevitability.
Zoha Sh. is a queer South Asian Muslim writer. Her work primarily explores the relationship between the personal and the political. She is a strong believer in love poems being a powerful revolutionary force.
Why we chose this piece: The chaos and imagery of this poem pulled us in, and there are so many amazing turns of phrase (e.g., the need to pray for a sin, sharing food like a secret). The tone and rhythm evolve in really neat ways, and it’s just, wow wow wow.
