Qawwali
Because you were schooled in no
instrument and I could carry
no tune, there would be no
music between us, not even
at the place of oracle, no matter what
story the flames told. And so I
wasted, the object of no one’s
desire, what beauty
I may have had faded, shades lost
to gray. Each feature cracked.
So let me join the fakirs who
beg at the roadside, singing
hymns to Allah, eyes
bleached by the sun.
This is my crooked qawwali,
an introductory wail, my vocal
improvisation. When my hair
streaks with malnutrition
and jasmine strands tangle
at my neck, I’ll lose myself
in the traffic’s vortex,
mehndi marking my palms
like a scar or a scab.
I’ll learn the patience of sorry
angels who stand by and let it
happen, haloes nothing more
than a scratch in the paint.
