четверг, ноября 26, 2015

When I finally reach the end of him

I fault him most for his plain name.

The way it shows up everywhere, dirtying
the party, tracking in mud from parks, pages

of books, neighborhoods I have no interest
in. It arrives on my doorstep,

smearing the welcome mat. Sweet as a sugar
cube. It’s in my tea now. Dissolving

with the water. His name is in my spit.
I cannot unswallow him. He is on

the mouth of all the lovers whose lips I lick.
I always thought I would love a man

with the name of a god. I always pictured
a glorious death—

running into a house ablaze, saving babies
from the fire, kissing a bullet for someone

I loved. Not this simple name. Not the way
he is on every woman’s tongue.

How he is everywhere, and I’m still

Fatimah Asghar

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