JAVERIA HASNAIN / 3 POEMS
I thank god every time I reach home safely
but before that, I thank my cab drivers.
To be a man in this world & still human.
When it has rained the previous
night & I get home safe the next day, I thank
my cab driver & god & also my city.
This city uncovers its potholes & trusts the sun
to do its job. I get told every time
I make a decision, it is a brave decision,
no matter how I make it, no matter who
is hurt. I am right & wrong &
right & wronged. Often, I am unable to
articulate all the places I am being hurt.
Those who love me love me
in spite of the silences, the screams. Although,
they love me little less, little more.
Often, those who love this city
are those who leave it. Often, I want
to love this city. Often, I am this city.
There are days I don’t believe
in god & still pray. There are days
when I believe in god too much &
listen to music, even dance a little.
I reach home, I tell Baba I have reached home,
that he can breathe, that the city let us
live another day.
All my friends are fruits
except you, who is a flower.
Who is a fabric. Who is a Persian
hero from Shahnameh. Who has a huge
pouch hanging with him. Who is
not an animal. Who is not a bird, even
though he really wants to be.
Who has given up on taste &
texture. Who now only wants
to exist. Who reads books by
obscure authors so he could
talk to me. Who lives in another
continent so he could still
miss me. Who gives my tongue
its many mouths. Who gives
my face its many eyes. Who
turns & turns & turns on his
axle. Who spins. Who layers
himself like onion; who makes
me cry. Who colors himself
like radish; who makes me blush.
Who glazes himself as eggplant;
who makes me come. All my friends
are fruits, except you: who is
a sunflower; who yellows
everything in his wake.
Otitis Externa
Not only feelings, but mucus too
may be collected in your body, a
doctor who is not my doctor but
my sister tells me. I know she is
a bad doctor or she would know
that I already know. Every night,
I ask god for strength of a grown,
unhinged man to ejaculate some-
thing out of my body. I visit my
doctor who is a good doctor because
I do not know him well. I struggle
to reveal what actually is happening:
doctor, when I wake up, everything
solidifies. Doctor, when I wake up
in the middle of night, everything is
still a little moist. Doctor, I am eva-
porating and afraid of it. Doctor,
at any given time, I am afraid of
everything. He offers me a diagnosis,
gently, my palms collecting nothing
but each other, turning vaporless:
that is how I know naming can expose
any animal soft, even somewhat weak.
Javeria Hasnain is a poet from Karachi, Pakistan. Her poems have been published or are forthcoming in The Aleph Review, Lumiere Review, Anatolios magazine, and elsewhere.