IN THE END, THE ALEFS CURL by Iqra Khan
into ل ’s and Allah is
a mutilation
of meaning in
prayers are refrains
of nursery rhymes the children
draw a fighter
plane below
names of the extinct
birds and emperors
cross the Indus
for mangoes— light
sweetened, sweating
golden sun-
-flower stalks
the indigo labourer
on her way to where the day’s
poems are powdered to
an ellipsis pierces tales of djinn
a Hazara mosque erupts
in pigeons a boy
somersaults across embellished
Mecca, Mecca!
If you are home
to God and only
hours
from Jerusalem send
a message where
the map is still
green with olives. Look there, love
is a thing
farther
than the bloody moon
where nuclei cannot be
split daily
bread and pomegranates
with me, jaana, bite and
savour these
tautened globules
of blood on tongues
I know one thing:
it alefs,
and it alefs.
