My lord is the Most Merciful.
But he created me
I’m a woman
and I advise you do not test them.
He kisses with purpose.
As if every kiss is a stamp of persuasion,
A request for eternity-
A soft nudge
A last wish
He kisses her like he knows she’ll leave
He kisses her like he’s explaining poverty to her lips
He kisses her like he’s disclosing to her-
About hollow lovers, lonely nights
He kisses her like he’s convincing her to stay
He kisses her like he knows:
Tomorrow she will leave.
Your leather seats carry the markings of previous women
I read their stories with my fingers
That leather seat romance;
Some one night stands
Some love making with conviction
Others somewhere in the middle
And somewhere in this car
I can still feel all of them
Can you hear them too?
What they never tell you
Is that the embrace of most of your lovers will feel the same.
That the clash of your teeth and the lunch on their breath is still
See, a woman is known to settle like rocks in a pond.
He says all men are dogs
He says what my last said
He sinks canine teeth into my breasts
He sinks like my last sank
A grab of the waist,
A tug of the hair-
And on to the next.
The Kitchen Note
Left the tea kettle on the stove.
Don’t trade for whiskey.
Warn me before
You have a change of heart.
Metaphor for Poverty
Poverty is overrated
and the 1% smells like
bread that’s been left-
in one place,
for too long.
How many metaphors can I use
to explain hunger?
Because we’ve killed too many Tupac’s and Malcom’s,
jailed too many L-Boogie’s and Assatas,
to the point where
An Excerpt of You
Speaking of the stars, I sometimes look up to the heavens
And then the ground beneath me
And wish I could crinkle the amount of sky
God placed between you and I
So that your face would be feet away from mine.
I Feel You
There’s a feel out there
I have yet to feel
There’s a scent out there
I have yet to inhale
There’s a memory out there
I have yet to cherish
There’s an earlobe
I have yet to press between my lips
There’s a narrow of a neck
My breath has yet to graze
There are three words
I have yet to say-
In the dawn of our union
As we wade out of the pool of uncertainty
That we’ve basked in far too long
But far less comfortably
In the company of irrelevant people
There will be a time
Where we will play with the webbing in the early of each other’s fingers,
A time where we’ve memorized the scars that God placed on the bends
Of each other’s bodies
Where we will laugh in the face of intimacy because we’ve learnt it far too well
A time where even the interlocking of our toes is not enough to quench our thirst
There will come a time where the slopes of each other’s frames will become second nature to our hands
A time where our insides know no peculiarity to this taste we’ve generously given one another-
That time is a gift
I have yet to receive
These words are a poem
I have yet to finish
This love is a story
I have yet to live
My Father’s Hands
By Sumaiya Zama
From the day I was born the folks around me
Made sure I was certain of one thing.
I look like my mother.
It was said that I dipped far too long
And far too comfortably in her gene pool
Then my father could afford.
I even have the scars to prove it.
I had the audacity to loot from my father
One physical trait.
Nimble fingers imprinted with apparent knuckles and palm lines-
Small pouches of flesh that cling to the undersides of my digits
That heat up more frequently then I’d prefer.
God gave me my father’s warm hands.
Sometimes I wonder why
Out of all the things I could have had but didn’t,
And of all the things I do have but possibly couldn’t
There must be a reason
God gave me my father’s hands.
A Poem About Anything
By Sumaiya Zama
My professor told me to write
A poem about anything.
So I tore open my mind
With my bare hands and finger nails
And let it’s contents spill
On to the lined paper before me.
I watched as my insides systematically structured
Themselves into stanzas-
Puddles of creative clot
That gave rise to anesthesia
This was my poem about anything;
A bloody mess.