a plate becomes
by noor ibn najam

a mirror. the opposite of feeding. a mother
and i wasn’t. i remember love 
before blood, a list
​
of threats and understandings. 
i’ve seen men die

i know the stakes. told myself otherwise
before, that’s why i settled, a nice girl, a nice

house, that’s what he called me. these
days i’m a woman
or something. when i sing

one note at a time, i swear i
feel him pluck
hair from the back of my

neck to burn. if the dead can be cursed

then i curse him. i curse him. i can’t tell
what nighttime does to me now, how dreams keep me

busy, since he won’t. i’m not a good
cook. on his own he was a suit
of clothes with nothing in it, never
drove, he was driven. hardworking,

no. he was worse than a worm.
now he’s food. alone in the kitchen
sleeping through the day

settling
the dark like a
beetle under

green mirror wings, i’m singing. picking
my skin. every night, disgusted
​
i pinch my nose, swallow
whatever this is that i’ve made.

---

noor is an experimental poet. she's received fellowships from Callaloo and The Watering Hole and is a recent resident of the Vermont Studio Center. her poems have been published and anthologized with DIAGRAM, ANMLY, The Academy of American Poets, The Rumpus, Bettering American Poetry, and others. her chapbook, PRAISE TO LESSER GODS OF LOVE, was published by Glass Poetry Press in 2019.