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Out of Mercy
The older I become
the more I find a visitor
walking into my mind.
I would say he's unwelcome,
but his presence is rightful.
Maybe this is the last weak breath
she draws, maybe this will be the
last time he drives off, maybe
there will be no will, no sorry's,
no tear-felt moments of "you've made me
proud"—maybe this is how they go.
Perhaps this recipe for dhan daar is her last
advice to me, or how to hold a knife by the
blade as a hammer, to hammer in another.
Perhaps this is the last lunch bag I'll carry
for him, the last message I'll send for him,
the last I'll rub his shoulder hurting from
a long drive, the last I'll sit his bus for him.
The older I get, this unannounced visitor
brings with words of wisdom, though
he never speaks. He needn't—
I've commited to memory the command to
lower my wings long before I'd grown any
feathers. Now, it's my time to act on it.
© Walyullah
the more I find a visitor
walking into my mind.
I would say he's unwelcome,
but his presence is rightful.
Maybe this is the last weak breath
she draws, maybe this will be the
last time he drives off, maybe
there will be no will, no sorry's,
no tear-felt moments of "you've made me
proud"—maybe this is how they go.
Perhaps this recipe for dhan daar is her last
advice to me, or how to hold a knife by the
blade as a hammer, to hammer in another.
Perhaps this is the last lunch bag I'll carry
for him, the last message I'll send for him,
the last I'll rub his shoulder hurting from
a long drive, the last I'll sit his bus for him.
The older I get, this unannounced visitor
brings with words of wisdom, though
he never speaks. He needn't—
I've commited to memory the command to
lower my wings long before I'd grown any
feathers. Now, it's my time to act on it.
© Walyullah
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