Qawwali

Because you were schooled in no

instrument and I could carry

no tune, there would be no

music between us, not even

at the place of oracle, no matter what

story the flames told. And so I

wasted, the object of no one’s

desire, what beauty

I may have had faded, shades lost

to gray. Each feature cracked.

So let me join the fakirs who

beg at the roadside, singing

hymns to Allah, eyes

bleached by the sun.

This is my crooked qawwali,

an introductory wail, my vocal

improvisation. When my hair

streaks with malnutrition

and jasmine strands tangle

at my neck, I’ll lose myself

in the traffic’s vortex,

mehndi marking my palms

like a scar or a scab.

I’ll learn the patience of sorry

angels who stand by and let it

happen, haloes nothing more

than a scratch in the paint.