Prayer Call: Heat
I wake cold, I who
Prospered through dreams of heat
Wake to their residue,
Sweat, and a clinging sheet.
—Thom Gunn, 'The Man with Night
Sweats'
Outside, “Allah-u-Akbar”
pierces the dawn air —
It is still dark.
Inside, electric light
powers strength
to my feverish body.
Mosque minaret
radiate prayer-calls
all around —
like coded signals
emanating
from old radio
transmitter-towers —
relaying the dangers
of heat in this stale air.
˜
A bare body
sleeps peacefully
beside me —
her face's innocence,
and generous curve
of her eye
lashes, try to sweep
away my
skin's excess heat,
one that is fast
making my bones
pale and brittle.
˜
A brief lull
lingers outside.
I cannot hear
|
the heavy lyrics,
their rhymes
trying to invoke
peace and respect,
their wafting baritone
instilling faith.
Such things
are luxuries
for me now.
I lie, trying
to piece together
the eccentric song
of my own
inadequate breathing.
It is a struggle.
˜
It is also a mystery.
Mystery of a body's
architecture,
its vulnerability,
its efficient circulation —
they are perfect
models I remember
from school's
very early lessons.
They are only
how things ought to be,
not how they are.
˜
Only now, I realise
the intent
of prayer's persuasion,
its seductive expression.
I also value
the presence and grace
of the body that willingly
lies next to me,
as her breath
|
from Postcards from Bangladesh (UPL/OUP), Edinburgh Review 119 (2007), and forthcoming in Blue Nude: New Selected Poems & Translations 1980-2010.