Azhar Wani

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October

Somewhere close, a pigeon coos
a sinuous speech as I
lie sprawled on my bed
near the windowpane

where sunlight still spells warm.
Outside, a fish-seller on wheels cries out
alive/ alive/ alive/ alive/ fishes.

In a first, in twenty-two years,
summer bid me adieu.
O summer was abundant

alive/ alive/ alive/ alive/ f̶i̶s̶h̶e̶s̶
Its footsteps, receding,
are freezing glory.

I am at once the fish’s eye,
lying sideways in a tub,
in a heaving van, endlessly
looking at the sky.



no howl escapes the nest no squeak

fires here are doused by time
no sirens go off
for water to know
if it’s time to come console

here, whispers can’t climb
decibels into a cry         such is
mandated by Shush Empire

so the town will burn
and a sun will die
the soundcheck hounds
patrol outside

READ MY LETTERS BOLDLY,
WHEN YOU DO
THE UPPER CASE DEMANDS
YOU HEAR ME OUT

the house will become a home again
when from its shushed ruins,
memories are beckoned, pronounced,
and the past is kept in your prayers.


​(for Agha Shahid Ali)