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February 19, 2019 Poetry

Two Poems 

Ayesha Raees

Two Poems  photo

Here Rests An Alien At Her Foreign Home. 

The internet is shit.
The time is wrong. 
No one lets me eat
what I want. Here 
is a roach trying to swim 
upside down. Here 
is a garden full of trees
and no grass. I have forgotten 
how to verse so I am filling
the house with the neighbouring
mosque. I am showing the men
the photos where 
we were all very small. Here 
we are sitting around
a folding table 
in party hats. Here 
is my brother turning eight, 
wearing the same sweater 
I'll wear when I turn 
stuffy and stale. Here 
is me clutching a fist 
full of tissues, smiling with a lack 
of breath. Here 
is my father slouching 
with a grimace, basking  
in his failure to smile well.                                                    My mother 
here, here, here, here, here, 
here, here, here, here, here,
here, here, here, here, here,
here, here, here, here, here,
I guess everywhere, 
pulling curtains between me 
and the fun, guiding the knife
in my fingers over the sponge, 
blowing my candles, wishing
my wishes, kissing my forehead 
and leaving behind in its middle 
a red hot smudge.

Full Grown Mourning

I am a full grown 
in mourning. Feed me 
Citrus—Lemon, Orange,
Foreign Pink Fruit.
Hydrate my lisp
with shiraz, throw my limbs
in the air towards the sun.
Chant Cheer. Chant Good.
Thank You for liking 
my short black dress
here at the club
where I have decided
to start a business 
of selling sweet talk
for a buck. I have much
like a visa to my name,
three mandarins, 
and this short black dress
which everyone seems to love.
Yesterday at the hospital
of my dreams, I ended
up eating one of my hands.
And with the pinky left,
I wiped my many single 
tears from the corner 
of my many single eyes. 
I love my drama. The mirrors see it. 
The walls see it. The Boys see it. 
Well, sorry Boys. I am too asian 
for upfront affection. 
I am only here at this club 
to pick a fight.
Punch Punch Cry Cry 
Ouch Ouch Bye Bye.
Time to clean the house.
Time to take out the trash.
Time to call Mother for the day. 
Dinner is Breakfast. Lunch is dead.
I am trying to become 
what the walls 
have always wanted 
to fled. 



image: Untitled by Wajid Karim