‘Lord,’
i say to the ceiling. ‘please give me three more hopes by the first hint of dusk’, while you let the cold enter through our bedroom window. hope. i look out over the lawn and imagine us laying in the grass You in the ridiculously soft burgundy shirt i bought you in the winter Me in my off-white crushed bed sheets i lie there watching as you create and recreate your future in the clouds. i look out over the lawn and imagine. hope. i wash my body and prepare to pray for us, falling to my knees my hands outstretched palms open wide. i am ready for what- ever good i am promised. i shift my gaze and see you throw your own towards your suitcase. i wash my body and prepare to pray. hope. the paint on our walls is still fresh, wet, white and i dip my brush in again, preparing to cover my own fingerprints your voice fills the room and a void becomes a filled grave. i turn to look at you and see nothing only wet, white paint where you should have been. the paint on my walls is still fresh. i close my eyes at the first hint of sun set. ‘alhamdulillah,’ i say to the ceiling, my voice heavy as i imagine the empty lawn in the morning. ‘alhamdulillah,’ i say again as i wash my body and prepare to pray before i sleep. ‘alhamdulillah,’ the windows are shut but light has seeped through, staining my fresh, white walls a slight shade of pink.
1 Comment
Kimani
4/20/2017 06:34:58 pm
This is Kimani we met at bootcamp great poem Asma. Keep up the great work. I follow your fb and i am really impressed with the moves you keep making. Very well done
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About ASma20-something y/o writer, activist, and youth worker in the Twin Cities. Stick around to read some of my thoughts! Archives
January 2018
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