Airless and dead as the room feels,
Birds are going mad with song outside.
Crocuses, uncaring, are abloom. In the
Dead of night, I sit bolt upright, seconds before the sirens go off.
Each breath feels like a miracle.
Father, what wouldn’t I give to have you here?
Ghosts of conversations we never had continue to
Haunt these strange spring evenings
I spend stringing words together
Just to make you speak. You believed in
Kismet, I know. I only believe in
Loss. First you, then all
Meaning. They say there is a reduction in seismic
Noise these days, as we huddle indoors, unmoving.
Outside, nature keeps going the way it is supposed to.
Perhaps it will do us good, this
Quiet; those of us who
Remain, anyway. It is helping pandas that were previously
Sexually inactive mate away from prying eyes.
The loneliness is what gets me though, living then dying
Unattended, unmourned. This
Virus has even taken from us our funerary rites;
We are denied the cold comfort of our grieving
ceremonies. Instead, days slowly spit out
Xeroxes of themselves, as we are too afraid to breathe
on each other, let alone touch.
You are not here to calm me, so I muster whatever
Zen I can: inhale these unsettling moments; exhale.
–
Fatima Malik has work published or forthcoming in Breakwater Review, dreams walking, sidereal magazine, the winnow, and others. She received a B.A. in English literature and creative writing from Dartmouth College and an M.A. in journalism and Near Eastern studies from NYU. While she currently lives in Queens, her heart is forever in Lahore.