14th day, 8th month, 2003


To N., and the meandering trend,


For a moment we will be childlike
Inside a seamless picture
Of circling daylight.

There is a spiral of smoke
In a stack stuck between
The yellowed teeth of a man
Across the corner, in an alley
Reeking of rat waste
And human flesh

For sale.

We will be childlike in days
Turning like pages
Of old directories,
Fashion magazines,
And old notebook
Fragments.

And we will reap the virtues
Of poets.

And love like dead priests
Hanging on clotheslines.

For a moment we will picture
Circling daylight
Pirouetting like a ballerina
Stuck in the yellowing teeth
Of words strewn
By the childlikeness
Of the morning.

----


It was one of those nights when we don’t have to wait for the bus to come and pick us up, in the waiting shed in the northern part of the city. Perhaps nobody likes going out this kind of day, or maybe the wind is just too furious. We begin by walking, carrying bags containing liquor, a few packs of cigarettes and frozen dinner, and end up rummaging through transport carrying us to where we are supposed to go.

And in the apartment, silence cues the night to put out all the lights, and turn the unholy hour to a fervent prayer. Bent knees on asphalt, the night sways to a half-dance, half-trance with the circling of winds, turning the pile of leaves beside the street in an unsightly, ungodly spiral.

They said the night begins to turn at this point, and transform itself into something less ordinary. They said this is the moment when the night unclothes itself to take a bath.

Such lovely moon glow. Perhaps we can have dinner outside, lest it’s too dark to be sure the forkful of our meal goes straight to our feeble mouths. Perhaps we can talk about lovely things, like the coming-out of the night muse.

“The dinner was nice,” you will begin to say, and will go through a series of disparaging attacks on the seemingly mismatched colors of my shirt. I will laugh hysterically, and will spray you with wine. We will chase each other in the small space of the balcony, and end up in an embrace. A sudden kiss on the forehead. What possible heaven.

And when it is time to sleep, I will begin by tucking you into the bed, to make you as comfortable as cotton. I will just sit there and stare at the wonder that was your eyes. “You can sleep now, dear, beside me, of course,” you will say and I will lie down, half of my body dangling on the bedside. You will stroke my baldness and laugh lightly at the indifference. I will hold your hand and smell the sweet scent of fresh grass. I will hold it until you fall asleep, and try to make out the small childlike whimpers you create when in slumber.

In the middle of the night you will pull me towards your arms like a pillow and say unconsciously, “You should keep your eyes closed and try to sleep.” And I will mumble incoherently and tell you that I like it when your eyes are closed.

And it is peaceful in your eyes come nighttime. Lately it has been a habit for me to watch you dream, and hold your hand like it is the only thing that will remind me of waking up. I don’t know, but your sleep has become an addictive resolution to my days. Maybe I can no longer live without it. Without you.

And in the morning you will find me still holding your hand, curled like a child and dreaming.

“You slept late again,” you will say upon my waking up. And I will sit up and rub my eyes and stare at you. We will stare at each other like we have never seen each other in ages and wonder at the wandering grace. Perhaps we had just slept too long.

And in mornings we will sit in the kitchen and try to come up with something sensible to say, like how the government runs the country, or how it is like to be a child in Somalia. But in mornings we are usually impatient, smoking half the pack of cigarettes we bought the night before and reheating the leftover dinner and hoping it will still taste the same.

We have come to the truth that we can never live in daylight.

For a few moments we will stay stuck in bed and recreating the nonchalance of our evenings waiting for the bus. With a stroke of hand and a soft whisper, we will sleep again, and hope that we will dream about dancing under the moon’s ever gracious brilliance.

And come nighttime we will run like children towards the crystalline image of the moon god.