Qabil Prays the Janaza
A crime has been done:
the crow’s talons scratch the ground,
and I know that no man is left in me.
Before me lies my brother, no breath
is left in him. I put my life
into a stone. I breathed, I raised it
high.
It blocked all the light. The rock eclipsed
the sun. I breathed out and brought it
down.
The crow came for company, came to
teach me. I bury my hands into the earth,
I scratch the dirt like a crow. I dig a grave.
My Lord, I pray: my Lord, turn my hands
into a spade.
Yusuf unveiling
The ladies of the house
are invited to peel oranges.
I sit at the banquet laid
before us, small knives
set by the fruit. Our mistress
says, “I will show you
the slave who holds my heart
in his hands.” We blink
at her words, a betrayal
spoken plainly in
her husband’s own house.
We don’t run. First,
we must see him; until then,
we say nothing.
The slave is called
by our mistress.
He walks past the screen,
into the hallway—
the knife
slips, I cut my fingers.
He can hardly be called
a man. My blood sings: this
is an angel, a houri
lithe and floating. This
barely exists at all. This
flutters lashes, full like thin
curtains ripe with wind,
walks the way a bird would
glide. His eyes avoid us,
but I know that if he looked,
his gaze would land upon me
like a smooth, black rock
dropped from the sky.
Artwork Courtesy of the Author: Sirrudeen Nahar
