I live across a field where they sell old things

by Samiah Haque

I live across a field where they sell old things.
I live two miles from where you live.

There used to be a tree I loved and a squirrel
who crosses the telephone wire every morning
from one tree to another, to another.

For days now it has been grey and white outside.
I forget how brown my skin is, how black my hair.
My blood inside me grows like a tangle of bushes
I spied outside the kitchen window in Chittagong

where beyond dark corridors, my mother
wrapped in blankets today as though forever
sleeps.

And the hand moving
draws us closer.


Read Samiah Haque’s “Heron”

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