Lahore

I take a wrong turn

and suddenly, on Sixth Ave

past the bars and cafes,

I am at once glad to hear,

a direct cause of well developed ears.

The chatter, beautiful horror of such a viable city.

And me, floating like fluid in the womb.

And me, like a zygote, being,

taking what is given involuntarily.

And me, I just do it.

Piece together a purpose, blob-like,

amidst cheaters and the gullible down to Broadway,

scammed in Times Square –

this, me, American!

-

I, too, am American.

Some happiness in the claim,

more misery in the possibility.

To the left, self sufficient ears of mine

pick up: a wedding in the Hamptons, a child in Philly.

All hope is never lost, if late motherhood did not exist,

nor unexpected fatherhood,

life is never lost, only meddled with abject terror.

I care little for politics.

I am American in fashion.

-

I am the blood on mosque walls.

My ears – still in existence, still floating –

Blob, still, and still nonconsensually.

I am blood in Lahore. I am the stains on the dirt.

I am the remainder of life, of children.

-

In May, slacks become shorts

and I have the audacity to bare my neck.

Ears covered, by hearing, because I am glad to hear,

and I want to be pretty.

The offices straight, avenues confused.

The men, women, and me.

I am celebrated by the way

I’ve tied my scarf.

I alternate looks, jumping through consciousness,

Muslim one day, Jewish the next.

Veiled like a Catholic. I am

All, individually, at once.

-

Smoke billows from the asphalt.

When I breathe it in, I pretend to smoke.

Pretending is great – except in May in Lahore.

It has settled into my being,

like bricks stuck in mud,

rocks grinding between my molars.

Like that smoke that emerges,

in me awakens a fear so sharp and paralyzing

that a mosque is open for all.

-

My father picked me up that day from school.

Peculiar – never did I see him during the day.

Something happened, he said.

Something terrible happened, he said.

His defeated body, unfortunate acceptance.

The worst yet.

-

The city, it flirts with danger.

I look for it, knowing it can’t happen to me.

If it happens, I’m ready.

My pen, poised, I am ready!

I listen with my ears and record it all:

the flirts – standing too close to the yellow line,

being too close to the homeless,

the dog refuses his leash.

It is inherently American to flirt with danger.

-

Another earthquake, I thought.

No, not that. Worse, worse, worse!

It was a building of mere straw,

a child in the sun looking to grow.

God’s rain watered it,

in time, it would have become stone.

We coat the walls. Prayer mats drenched,

squelching under boots.

Oh, God. Oh, God, oh God!

-

I am nine; I am watching.

Don’t dare, you don’t dare to look away.

My mother covers my eyes.

Oh, God, what have I done?

What should I do?

-

Will the Americans help?

They scurry around Lahore. 

Where are the Americans?

-

Lahore, laying on the floor.

Lahore, a martyr.

Lahore, still in prostration.

Lahore, coating the walls.

Lahore, wake up, Lahore!

Lahore, evergreen.

Lahore, I have ears and I hear you,

Lahore, I am nine and I don’t know what to do.

Lahore, why did it have to be you?

Lahore, what have we done?

-

The city, dirty, vile!

You should be so lucky to be unlike Lahore.