Verse
A Kalimah was read. One verse, then two. The past is not erased because it is not a garment to be worn then shorn. It is in the tendrils of hair. The ruh. The soul.
A temple is mounted on top of the shrine. A devi or goddess alongside a turquoise mosque.
The snake that coils and looks you in the eye so you bow to it.
You bend. A sajda. Head to velvet or straw mat.
I offer myself in prayer.
Peacock
Thin, wiry feet crush leaves in the spinach garden
skin velvet blue.
Could it be that I could be its skin?
Lizard in the courtyard licks to taste the air.
Bells shake on the dancer’s ankles.
The forest is silent at first
but when she wanders, she dances.
Leaves, dirt, and bells.
Dance changes when she sees the peacock
for the peacock has a dance too—
is this the only dance that should be seen
and requires listening?
The slow turning away of the bird
who retires for the afternoon.
The dancer’s hands are vines that curl and caress.
One spin, three spins, eight-point turn.
Beauty winces at the beauty of longing,
what is folded beheld inside the feathers.
Adopt the turning of the peacock,
and the eyes that are not afraid.
Delhi
This city is cruel- chaos- unceasing movement, Rooftops blooming with flowers and trailing vines. The wild everywhere.
August rain floods barsatis and basements. An orange bobcat awaits me at the top of the steps. She frightens the housecat who ambles on a thin iron railing on the terrace outside the glass door.
I come home, standing at the base of the stairs, only to find both cats peering at me.
Me, the tenant who watches the wild from birth and the domestic made wild.
We are all made wild here.
These poems were originally published in Rahim’s hybrid prose and poetry memoir, An American Meo, New York: Spuyten Duyvil, 2023. The poem “Peacock” also appeared in Hotel Amerika, vol 19, 2021. Reprinted with permission of the author and publishers.
* * *