Wineglass When your mother found strands of your hair hung up in the teeth of your comb your father squirreled them into a wineglass It bites him hard that your life happened like an hourglass with only a handful of sand-- this split to the seam of his body, a split of darkness that won't kill him but squeezes adrenaline into his veins, so he lives through the pain of your absence. He's not all right to speak. His voice rims with bereavement, and he wants to sing by your grave, child, now that birds blow songs through the window--counts sadness on the prayer beads necklaced around his collar. If he had known the sky would inhale you out of him so quickly, he would have stayed with your toes forever in his hands. Your face is still everywhere, even in the places he is not looking. He presses a deep kiss on your grave, on your forehead. Hands, cloudy from rubbing the grave, as if on your tender skin. The distance he feels is more than the four hundred kilometers that often stands between you. He will travel this far to hold you against the moon. They say you are like his reflection pulled out of the mirror he stares into. To pull you out he plunges his hand inside himself and pulls. Excerpted from Your Crib, My Qibla by Saddiq Dzukogi All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
