an ending stream

It's raining out,
sporadic bursts of sadness
accumulate on the shoulders of her coat.

rain pours
and slides off her black umbrella.

Today
I am in the hospital.

she cries on the bus
while watching the raindrops
inch downwards on the window,
they get heavier
as it rains.

she hasn't done enough,
not nearly enough.
It is too soon-

But the rain goes on for days.

chai rain

The days dwindle and yellow.
Days fall to the ground and are buried under snow
they go floating away in streams of rain
down on the sides of streets.

I watched them, floating away
on streams of chai-coloured rain
they float like cardamom in tea
and dried mint leaves,
the flavours, intoxicating,
laugh in a hot cup
and my days race me on this stream of chai
and milk. I am losing. I am losing.
But I am also drinking hot tea
and the steam rises and swells
and gets into my eyes, as they follow
the chai stream, down the road that is
sloped downwards.

I am losing, losing the race
but I stopped for some tea with milk and honey,
and I asked the days to stop and float on
streams of chai.

my mind ages

my knees are old, they squeek and crackle as I shuffle around my room in cheap plastic slippers. I can't see much, and my eyes are sore behind my glasses. He should have been here by now, I've been waiting for so long. I forget how to tell time. The strap of my watch broke months ago anyways, so not being able to tell time isn't the end of the world.

He makes me wait so long.

My sins are great, but are You not the One who raised me and guided me?

His name is in the song, elaika. I try to hear why it's there, but I can't. For you, Lord of Creation, I lift my darknesses. When my heart was darkened, and my chest constricted, You put hope into my heart and it poured forth from me, and mercy. Forgiver of the shame of sins, should I not thank He who raised me and guided me?

If You take care of me, You have taken care of one who is in need of You. And if You take revenge on me, I have no one to come to my aid.

He was Al-Atheem from the beginning, before ancient stories. And though I transgress, He puts hope into my heart, and it pours forth from me.

rough patches

Rough patches appear
on the margins of my day-
I take my eraser in my hand
and rub, rub, rub the dark lines
until the pressured paper
gives way to the eraser
and splits
and leaves its crumbs all over the floor.
There are no more rough patches,
only holes, in my day.

fear

When I am alone
only I know my own iniquities;
I have many.

The cassette tape from that meeting lies on my desk,
unheard. I was supposed to listen to it
and find his voice and judge him,
but I resisted. What right do I have?
The label is slowly peeling off the original-
it's been 3 years since he spoke into the mic.

Three years ago I was this low,
three years ago I didn't know the brutality
of human nature. Maybe he didn't either.
I won't listen to the tape.

Let me alone for just a while longer
so only the few who know of my iniquities
can laugh at them.

The Deposition

her eyes laugh at me
and her gestures wave too close to her
styrofoam cup-turned coffee cup.
A stale cookie, just one bite (she forgot she was fasting).

Small pots, cracked, grotesque,
hold life's soil, green spurts of grass
sit, sipping the sun next to
the window.

The stairs to the tower are steep.
I am tired, my socks are wet and
the tips of my sleeves,
they hang as I walk up the steps
limp,
stretched to my finger tips.

The shutters, broken and browning
hang, also limp, useless covers
to fogged windows. I see trees outside
and how they dance in the rain,
glad of it.

I turn and look down from the tower,
broken umbrellas have been strewn to the side of the street.
Their hoods are draped over their eyes,
how can they see?

The tower rattles in the wind.

signed, your most affectionate friend and servant

I am angry at the tea
because it worked
with the dried and cracked peppermint leaves
and though I cannot read (the words
laugh at me and blur into one another),
I cannot sleep.

the letters of some, from long ago
stay with me asleep or awake
but those people are gone. They've died.
What good are her letters to me now?
I cannot answer and tell her
not to surrender to her sorrows
or how tomorrow might be different
if she tries.
she's died, the wretch-
a punishment for me who has advice
that no one will accept.

The questioner

The questioner
looks me in the eyes
and grimaces. He sees something
in me that I refuse to.
He sees a pain that
smoulders, an ashless fire that flickers
and burns
without end and a cloud
of smoke that
conceals my vision but he,
he sees through it, the questioner.