Malik of Zubair
| I soften the soap |
| in my hands, spread warm lather |
| over my stubble |
| without switching on |
| the light. I can just make out |
| a mirrored shadow. |
| The morning after |
| mother's death, I am her hands |
| exploring this face, |
| known so casually, |
| so blindly. Scrape the razor |
| over cheek bones, walk |
| thick fingers over |
| the ridgeline where my jaw curves, |
| discover the place |
| where the chest begins. |
| Once, when my hands were bandaged |
| Ummi shaved my face - |
| narrowed, kohl-drawn eyes, |
| and the way she bit her lip |
| gave me tears I tried |
| to blink away. Now, |
| just like her, I lift the nose |
| up to shave beneath |
| each nostrils, tilt chin |
| to tighten neck's warbled flesh |
| A field I've traversed |
| thousands of times, but |
| today she guides me, I caress |
| one who's grown too old |
| to be swaddled, held. |
| Seal the drain. Run hot water. |
| Take it in my palms, |
| sear my face alive. |
| The towel I blindly grab |
| smells of her henna. |
| Dust rises above |
| hard ground. Newly groomed horses |
| shamble into light. |
The Calligrapher Yakat al-Musta'simi, 1258
| There are times when to |
| retreat is the only way |
| to advance. Mongols |
| invaded Baghdad |
| and the streets wept with our blood. |
| It may sound crazy, |
| but I did not fight; |
| or rather, I fought a crowd |
| to the high tower |
| where tools of my trade |
| were waiting. Smell of burning |
| and the mad screaming |
| were spilled out with words |
| that swirled across the pages. |
| They accused me of |
| sedition, said I |
| refused to kill with these hands - |
| wouldn't answer cries - |
| but they did not know. |
| I felt scimitars cut through |
| cloth and flesh and bone. |
| My pen, dipped in blood, |
| hurried across smooth paper. |
| If it is madness |
| to make beautiful |
| things in the midst of madness |
| then I am guilty, |
| but I didn't care |
| what I was called - knew I was |
| called to be in prayer. |
| If I were to die, |
| I would die with pen in hand. |
| If I were to live, |
| I would live with pen |
| in hand. When the barricaded |
| door finally gave way |
| they found me at work, |
| shaping tear stains to letters |
| the ink rushed to fill. |
David Sullivan's first book, Strong-Armed Angels, was published by Hummingbird Press, and two of its poems were read by Garrison Keillor on The Writer's Almanac. Devil's Messenger, a multi-voiced manuscript responding to what's occurring in Iraq, is forthcoming from Main Street Rag. He teaches at Cabrillo College, where he edits the Porter Gulch Review, and lives in Santa Cruz with his love, the historian Cherie Barkey, and their two children, Jules and Amina Barivan.
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