Love, Do Not Ask
by Aiman Tahir Khan
I used to believe I was good with my words
until I sat before the one who loved me,
keeper of my secrets, who could speak no longer.
Tongue-tied. Imagine a life so small, there is nothing to say.
Each day begins the same. When I call the one who makes me dream,
I reach the answering machine. There must be a reason
for the seasons changing. To the hospital I bring
a newspaper, for you to listen to something new.
Nawai-waqt, like you read at breakfast, your tea in a bowl,
lukewarm. I have become a stranger, to you, and to this language.
At night, I ask the flame what it has witnessed.
Which is worse: to forget or to be forgotten?
Either way, I hope I can remember the texture
of your hair brushing against my palms.
/ O’ gentle healer of wounds! Take my hands
and turn them into ones that can
bring doves back to life.
until I sat before the one who loved me,
keeper of my secrets, who could speak no longer.
Tongue-tied. Imagine a life so small, there is nothing to say.
Each day begins the same. When I call the one who makes me dream,
I reach the answering machine. There must be a reason
for the seasons changing. To the hospital I bring
a newspaper, for you to listen to something new.
Nawai-waqt, like you read at breakfast, your tea in a bowl,
lukewarm. I have become a stranger, to you, and to this language.
At night, I ask the flame what it has witnessed.
Which is worse: to forget or to be forgotten?
Either way, I hope I can remember the texture
of your hair brushing against my palms.
/ O’ gentle healer of wounds! Take my hands
and turn them into ones that can
bring doves back to life.
Aiman Tahir Khan is a writer from Lahore, Pakistan. She was selected as the inaugural Pakistan Youth Poet Laureate, and her work appears in Nimrod, the Penn Review, Wildness, and elsewhere. She is looking for ways to be very soft.