notes on gulshan e ravi mornings

written & visual poem

notes on gulshan e ravi mornings

pigeons gossiping on tangled wires, equidistantly

staring at my permeable foreignness.

they sense it, even in the smog—

even if they can only see half

my face. my dada tells me these pigeons

are haramkhors, and won’t let anyone think

in peace. I think of the old woman in some alleys

away from my house, who dusts the ramp to the garage

every morning. I hear the rhythmic whips of the jharoo, like a whishing

heartbeat, before I can even raise my hands for Fajr. all the dust

she dusted for decades probably still isn’t enough to bury a dead

pigeon—in lahore, dust never goes away.

it piles up again on the same tile you polished like memory clustering

around a thought. then there are the crows and the mynahs

forming alliances in potholes full of road water,

their voice boxes humming false vowels

of familiarity. by Abdul Ghaffar juice corner, the ice-carver deconstructs

his bricks while his son tries to focus, but is hypnotized

by the boys playing cricket. even in December there will be a demand for ice.

like the blocks of ice being placed on the boy’s hands and falling, i let my dreams

fall and roll off across my feet. and on the banner that says Good Luck

Fabrics, there is a haramkhor pigeon,

laughing at me, hysterically, with its red eyes.