To speak of this would be to try and say
something of a cave, a letterless mouth.
The moon floats like a coin in black water.
The candle on the table is dead.
A mouth hangs forlorn like a
well. A year hangs forlorn like a well.
Still, a glint in the dark —
a fish’s tail. Silver whisper,
silver whisper. God is
closer to me than my jugular vein.
The hummingbird whirs.
Drinks syrup from a velvet plate.
Inevitable life stirs like a cracked
seed, ringing off the walls its fleshy song.
Every day I tried to say it —
My family, when I saw your faces in the good sun
I died once, then many times, again and again
Fatima Jafar is a Pakistani poet living in Boston, where she is an MFA Poetry candidate at Emerson College. Her work has appeared in Nimrod, The Pinch, Banshee Press, The Roadrunner Review, and more.