flight

you wanted to jump                you have always
off the roof                              had a fear of flying
 
there is a shadow                    everything you hold
nestled in the basket               in your hands
of your ribcage                       is a stone
 
how shall we now                   it is time to empty
find the words?                       every pocket
 
let’s stop pretending,              place each choice
you and i                                on display
 
let us speak                            small birds
plainly                                    pushed out
 
let us not speak                      onto the branch
at all                                       of need

Amen

Let this be a spiritual practice
of sorts: finding
the right order for the right words,
or whichever words
I can muster.
 
Let me say stone. Roll it around
your mouth. The taste of it
an empty tomb.
Filled with shadows.
 
Let me say sword. The power
of life and death in the tongue.
How everything is divided.
How much I regret.
 
Let me say bread. Pair it with wine.
Find someone to join you at the table.
Sit until you are empty of speech.
Sit until you are full of blessing.
 
Then slouch bedwards.
Curl into the arms of your lover.
Say your evening prayers.
Make your declarations one to another.
Let it be so.

Conspiracy of Love by Shazia Hafiz Ramji

 

Conspiracy of Love

Shazia Hafiz Ramji
 

for those who are clean and sober

The problem with trying to one-up yourself 
is not that you might die by your own hands, 
but that you’ll be able to justify why
without feeling anything. When you were
in withdrawal, alone in your bed, the salt 
from the sweat pressed on the mattress was testimony 
to what you allowed: “I am Satan, because I deal 
in language.” The next day, you had stopped
shaking, you went to work secular and clean. 
There were no other addicts and you didn’t speak.
You know that lies look beautiful, unified, all parts 
clicking together, lighting up your eyes. They are old 
technology made new, sleek and gleaming 
in crevasses like fog rolling around Renfrew. 
You’re awake today to see it, because you’ve been 
brave. You’ve noticed your friend has listened 
and told you very boring things — not dismissed 
them as errands. This is the task you will have to do, 
soon enough, remembering all the ways your mind 
moved — to write yourself into what you want 
to call Conspiracy of Love. When the guy from Tinder 
said hi to you in school, it didn’t strike you 
that he might know you from the internet. You didn’t 
remember who he was, not even when he called you 
by your fake name. All you thought was, “I can’t
do this again. I want to be clean. I want to be Shazia.” 
If you end this poem here, it might make sense, 
but we both know this kind of work is occult. 
So, you have to ask me: How do you want to finish 
this poem? You have to leave it there. That way
at least it’s not about you anymore. 

cento for april 2021

it’s late, and it’s time

for being threatened with death.

beneath the skin,

i practise all the reminders.

i am looking for fresh words,

small promises.

i’m not convinced

and head to the kitchen.

i say too much, and

it empties us more—

the weakness trying

to explore and mark

our stores

before we forget them.

what is there beyond heat?

birds,

the weight of words;

have we forgotten

you, love, and all the ones you hate?

it was sunny and

i found a secret door

for beauty.

the grass will be green,

even now.

you asked me to dance,

or someone did.

maybe there is still more to say:

old things can be renewed.

i’m not yet dried out.

let’s try this again.

on resilience

these days

one often speaks

of resilience

 

but all this weeping

has dried me out,

made me brittle

 

i no longer have the energy

required for all this—

elasticity is a finite thing

 

we are not without measure

our hands cannot always be extended

across all this distance

 

we move against each other

in so many different ways;

like a river redounding

 

we keep looking for space

some center of stillness—

the borders keep shifting

 

we grow tired of the same arguments;

look for ways to withdraw from the world,

this wild whirling gasp

 

find someone whose hand fits in yours,

or yours in theirs—

dare to speak the words