What star fixed you, whose fingernail
nicked the skin on your thigh so that
even clothed, you’d always feel
the scar burning? After the opening
prayers, the translator spoke
into the microphone: of the prophets
who themselves met their end,
though they’d hummed the name of Allah
every day of their lives. Marked
or unmarked, we don’t know how long
it will take before the vault
of heaven opens; if only
it were as easy as closing one’s eyes
and going to sleep. One day, the air
serifed with dragonfly wings; the next,
an unmarked page ready for scribing.
~ in memoriam, Imtiaz Habib
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