if I’m going to write a love poem

By Nadia Kirmani

so much depends upon

whether I can separate

ash from dirt

 

yesterday, the snow was fresh –

the way it tends to fall early morning, (I admit)

it reminded me of your voice, when you let it

be gentle & tea became kitchen lullaby so I started

coating lies a maternal pink

that sunset gave me

 

                        *

 

when I read the Quran, dirt-crusted

fingers trace right to left,

striving to feel

where there is no structure but silk song

& orange sun he wove into my hair

 

I cling to anecdote now,

to stitch open wound – the way my immigrant

parents do – let it seed my voice box & flower

hyacinth in throat

 

                        *

 

today, braced for barefoot

winter, he left a handful

of congealed snow in my palms

threatening the laws that govern ice.

 

Nadia Kirmani is a first-generation immigrant from Karachi, Pakistan. She holds a BS in Biology and BA in English from Duke University and is currently pursuing an MD at Stanford University School of Medicine. She writes poetry on faith, grief, and preservation.