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Exile
Pramila Venkateswaran

Do you see, Fauzia? The sky is torn, letters bleed from it,
big, black letters stringing themselves into festoons,
weaving themselves around telephone cables, reaching
for flag poles, tall houses, trees, anything stately
that will make us look up with awe, as we are doing now,
pressing our fingers to our cheeks as words stencil the air
with indelible ink. Do you see what I see? The words,
one moment brilliant confetti scattering at a festival,
smudges the next, as if a bird has cut through the glyphs,
the old letters knocked off by newer ones, their brightness
piercing our eyes, forcing them shut. It’s blazing,
but in halls within our eyes, streaked as if with henna,
we are unable to locate the familiar—the road climbing
up to the bridge and descending into the market place
with its fountains of voices . . . our briefcases, walking shoes,
diaries, that silk dress you gave me for my birthday,
even our men. Our men, Fauzia, look at them changing,
as the words dim and brighten with renewed force
and we shield our gaze so darkness veils our eyes
to keep them cool. I reach out to hold his hands
as I did when we first met at the café outside Kabul,
but they are old, damp wood that won’t catch fire
however much I try to find fresh spots and hold to
them the light cupped in my numb fingers.
Our girls are in the porch with the heaviness of time
tethering their tongues, as letters from the wound
fasten themselves around their wrists and feet.
It’s true, Fauzia, the words are now at eye level,
I know, despite my closed eyes and the twitching
nerves in your lids, I know the writing is growing
like ivy over buildings and valleys and around
our bodies. Our bodies, Fauzia, that have never felt
the prick of cords—except the needle for healing,
or the hurt of pleasure on the marriage bed —
now are held fast with bands and bracelets of threats.
Do you remember how we lay with abandon, eating
fried plantains on my grandmother’s couch
opposite a framed picture of two Russian soldiers
in the mountains sitting by a fire lit by a peasant?
Is the sun still riding the mountain’s edge?
Why is the house dark and where’s everyone?
And, why don’t I hear your voice, Fauzia?

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