placing my grief in the mouth of language
by Rameen Saad
i put my lips to grief and wish them warm
holding on for dear life as my lifeboat fills up
behind me, threatening to leave me
right there, curled up in a ball around
a colder embrace; wanting, waiting to dissolve.
to shape your lips and mouth ‘go’, feel nothing
but the empty space staring back at you
making your eyes dry with the intensity
of its gaze. waiting for the silken graze of
ghosts to stiffen the atmosphere and bring
with them memories, bountiful and sweet,
full to the brim with the brightest of colours.
but ghosts belong to your mind,
mirrored in the smells of the world,
finding solace in a familiar touch.
i visit the house at the end of bustling lane,
sifting and sorting through the smells of fresh samosas
mingled with the distinct nostalgia of manure
and find nothing there to greet me;
merely a handful of dust,
and the dying of the flowers that sit,
neglected and tender in their old age.
they do not mock.
they merely share the pitiful thump
of my heart as we exchange glances,
missing and waiting to be watered.
the door to the house sits just as it always did
the caged metal door behind it still stiff,
the creaking of the hinges as it swings open
to greet us with scents of abandonment
the inside is smaller,
as if it shrivelled up, leaving no more space
for anything other than this sadness
that threatens to choke.
there is nothing to do but stand there and wait
for a familiar memory to run across, of my two
feet slapping against the cold, marble flooring,
pitter patter strong, excitedly filling the hours
with games and conversation.
my ghost would read to me,
concoct stories of hiran and shair, call me
his gurya, fashion a future for me that i would
barely start to see. i would paint it for him,
plaster it with an adolescent’s writing,
finally managing to bring it to him.
just a little too late.
i leave with the same muted horror,
the brushing away of bits of the cobwebs left by
my memories, and i straighten up with my
back bent.
there live no ghosts in this abandoned place.
when you left, you took all of it with you.
there is no space left in this wheezing carcass
for a trace, a glance, a
glowing smile.
visual by Taimur Ali Khan.