Alone, in Halves
Before incineration, my father’s eyeball
was placed into a plastic bag like a carnival
goldfish or lamb delved into butcher’s
portions. As a child, I saw the head
of an animal my father slaughtered
displayed on ice. Once ununited,
the body is never part of it again.
Memories of how a zamindar's mute
child was gifted multiple tongues:
arranged and alight on a woven bed
of white silk. From each came the dark
whimper of something’s last breath,
electricity before death. A severed ear
in Lahori dust remembers the morning
prayer played on the radio. How much
is about the displaced heart? Nothing
speaks without a body. My father’s retina
frayed, devastating for a weaver—his remaining
eye without a partner. I desire intimacy.
A togetherness. Instead of asking—
how are you? We ask: what did you see?
In lieu of bouquets for new lovers,
we offer litanies of vision—betrayal
of pink cat-mouth peonies blooming
in the neighbor’s garden. Shaded drips
of constellations fell from the faucet
of a wet April night. The ripped net
from an armful of oranges bursts
into halves. I remember the first time I desired
you to desire me. The light blue cleft
of your cool eyes. Where or why
or however, you would like.
I inherited this blade.
JAI HAMID BASHIR is a Pakistani-American artist. She has been published in American Poetry Review, POETRY Magazine, The Adroit Journal, Frontier, Denver Quarterly, Radar, Palette Poetry, Asian American Writers Workshop, and others. Jai is a graduate of Columbia University and lives in Salt Lake City, Utah.