Hassan Kalam Abul reading ‘a shed snake skin is often twice as long as the snake’

the neighbours string six nazar across
the door that faces mine
blue within blue,
their glare chips at the paint
и там я сижу

с моими таблицами и собраниями
и с проклятыми подкастами между моими ушами.

I am used to looking away.

деревня отца моего
привязанная к миндалю
в середине наводнения,
снова смыта
and I am used to speaking too faintly.

sunlight breaks against skin and my bag bulges
with honeyed bread,
some joys feel like
theft.
иконки на макбуке думают, что я с ними
пальцы приросли к мелкой клавиатуре.
instead I kick out my toes
and take stock of the cat and the mynahs and the miniature citrus
and name the dust and the weeds and the fallen boughs
and pour myself into every flower and every clod and every bee
because
I want to remember.
on days when there are no more casual walks through nature
I want to be able to close my eyes, and conjure petals, distinctly

maybe mindfulness is easier at the end of the world:
the acceleration of meaning,
everything with the weight of a sign.
и время висит, раздуто.

they say a jinn sweeps through in storms
where clear-headed days turn green
но дом моего отца питается пятьдесят семь артериями
и луна раскрывается в деревянные полумесяцы в цвете lal cha и серебре ilishmas
and the rain scatters nazar across the surface of the river.

the carapace of a eucalypt
says “you have two years of water left.”
when you ask if the mountain rain will hold you
от друзей только жгучий смех
what is it like, to expect that someone will catch you?
sucking stones, I thirst for more days
and the meanest parts of me
look at my loves
и я вижу теx, которыми я бы пожертвовала, чтобы их спасти.

Transliteration and translation

Transliteration and translation (opens in a new page).

Hassan Kalam Abul is a writer and editor living in Naarm. Their work has been published by Running Dog, The Lifted Brow, Djed Press, and Subbed In, among others.