copper. steel. a spoon without a head. 
a running faucet. a lacquered cabinet

handed down to me where once i compressed 
myself to hide in fear.

a rotting seed with an ear against the wall 
of a fruit. it used to be easy to say

a thing will grow if it touches the bullet-
riddled face of soil. if it rains.

if the wild keep scavenging for the death 
of its own dipterous hunger.

if i stop saying, promise you won't do it again. 
a new door with the same lock.

the same password. the same foods i cook. 
pakora. samosa. chicken biryani

in summer. praying on a carpet 
literally for a man. walking on a Pakistani street 

in coercion. still in another country. 
a computer screen showing flights

i cannot afford. the feeling that i will not see 
the love i want—this changes

every Friday when my partner arrives. 
i deceive myself by adding

another body to my body. my hope eats rice 
from his palm, drinks milk

from his used cup. it can be lovely, frosted 
and warm, the tickling of pink

pelage to the nose, but—too late i'd know—
it is the weight of successive wars.