Shikwah

                      After Iqbal

Brother on the threshing floor, body like wheat,

and the red dirt that binds us, that nothing will release us

from. The fig tree, the date palm, the treacherous murder

unleashed into us now, the call blazing from vanity’s lungs,

jutting us to a future of mindless rain, wayward blizzards

of sand and snow. We were born to ward off this desolation

that grinds mountains into floss, bores into our books

for a whim that ordains blood, our blood

and others, our sisters, mothers. Without such fear

who will we be? What will we do without

this aching chord, without the bright morning that tore

the silver’s towers? Fire and the parched red dirt

that binds, the water stolen from our wells,

a black magic dredging the lower rungs of earth.

We dream of clover. The soft scent of young lambs

is the first letter of our alphabet, and the prophets

who tighten ropes around their waists to stifle hunger's

pangs, supplicant brows seeking light from earth’s core.

What will we do without the angel’s voice, a tide

sending us heavenward, a harmattan ushering us into the hell

of its lows. How can we live without such turbulent hope?

How can we accept the certainty of our quiet graves?

How can we stop waiting to witness the Lord’s face?

And what will we do without the hardened gaze?

The girls walk past, hair fluttering like commas

between poems of musk, a dream of touch like water

gently falling on smooth, warm stone.

What will we do without the anemones’ mournful dirge

stroking the dagger’s spine and the gelding’s nightmares.

Our hatred for our scoured hands, our love of the moment

when the sun drops only for our eyes? Who else will hear

birdsong as prayer, who will cleanse himself with the stroke

of sand? Who keeps the earth rotating with praise

of your name? And what will this spinning,

hurtling mean without our voices shouldering it

toward some ripe, sweetened pause?

What will you do, dear God, without us? How

will you fare, alone again in the empty vast, in the dark

of your creation, without us giving you your name?