Gulshan-i-Iqbal Park by Hafsah Aneela Bashir Mua

I am not a silent poet

Yesterday in Sardar mandi, next to the sabzi valas wooden handcart
You opened my passenger side door and took a seat
Decreased the front of your brown starched kameez over your knees
Like, maybe, your father used to
And demanded I drive you to Anarkali as if you knew me

I wonder now how many protests you stifled
At the sight of a lapel, peeled back
To reveal tightly assembled explosives strapped
To upper torso like an iron swaddle
Before my car became your vehicle of choice

We drove to three different locations
My croaked touch-paper pleas unable
to cool the flame of your eyes
Your face – a scream
When you couldn’t decide
Where to deliver your hatred

You slammed my car door as you left

Today the swings in Gulshan-Iqbal Park are cracked red
The chains, charred and redundant
The overturned choo choo train simmers
Like, maybe …

View original post 21 more words

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s