Petition
What god will catch me
when I’m down, when I’ve taken
sufficient drink to reveal myself,
my weaknesses, when
my words are little
more than a blurring
of consonant and vowel?
I’m drunk on spring:
branches of waxy leaves that
greet me at my driveway
like a family clutching
trays of sweets.
How can I sing of this?
If I cannot sing, then
make me mute. Or lend me
words, send me
the taste of another’s prayer,
cool as a coin
newly-minted on the tongue.
Picasso’s Self Portrait in Blue Period, 1901
At twenty, already a haggard man,
lean as a stray, someone
I cross the street to avoid at night
even as I notice pink lips, his blue
hollowed cheeks. By this age, we’ve both lost
friends we won’t recover. He’s huddled
in his navy coat, watching from
room to room. His grief, mine—
eyes two sunken tombs.
When I Garden
I’m quick to pick the bud
along with the weed, the night
my excuse
for my blunders.
In daylight, I face
accusatory veins and
uprooted hyacinth
shoots. The blameless
talc of lavender
dusts the ivy leaves.
Spring is ripped
from tulips.
I don’t mean to destroy
both what I pluck by mistake
and what we reap. I’ve no excuse
but that I dig in search of
earth so deep it holds
no bloom.
I blindly divine
the loam from which we’re made.
I hope to quarry the clay
or, at least, to discover
the dirt that holds my imprint
when I shape it with my hands.
Villanelle
I wanted to hear what the messengers heard.
Chest tight, breath in abeyance,
I wasted my days as a slave to the word.
Flare or flag, no signal could distract me—the third
of three generations of women—seers, clairvoyants.
I wanted to hear what the messengers heard.
Tellers read the lines cutting my hand, absurd-
ly claimed, you’re too ambitious—evidence
I’d wasted my days as a slave to the word.
I waited: patient, unperturbed—
disregarding static, the dark’s interference.
I wanted to hear what the messengers heard.
My backbone buckled, my speech slurred
while with paper and ink I remained convinced
I’d wasted my days as a slave to the word.
I heard not a sound, friend. I returned to the world
empty-handed, drained of perseverance.
Wanting to hear what the messengers heard
I’d wasted my days as a slave to the word.
Pantoum
Fresh grief, when I find another poet
has died. In my ignorance, I grieve
as though each loss is new, and I, a friend
at the graveside. As we leave, they too leave.
Who has died? In my ignorance, I grieve
for the old poets, who left me too soon
at the graveside. As we leave, they too leave.
Weather-worn, world-weary. Weakened, I croon
for the old poets, who left me too soon.
Between hardbacks, at libraries, I weep.
Weather-worn, world-weary, weakened: I croon.
It’s as though I’ve woken from some great sleep
at libraries, between hardbacks, and I weep,
dusted by the dust of the everyday.
It’s as though I’ve woken from some great sleep
and long to return to it, betrayed—
dusted by the dust of the everyday,
by what I learn, by those who raise me.
I long to return to them, betrayed
as I am: I need their eyes to see.
By what I’ve learned, by those who raised me
I hope to do right—hardened, imperfect
as I am. I need their eyes to see
clearly from this world into the next.
I hope to do right—hardened, imperfect—
I hear echoes in every sun-baked urn,
clearly, from this world into the next.
I let the words bear down and burn.
I hear echoes in every sun-baked urn
of fresh grief, when I find another poet.
I let their words bear down and burn
as though each loss is new, and I, a friend. 
Dilruba Ahmed’s poetry has appeared in or will soon appear in Born Magazine, The Cream City Review, Drunken Boat, New Orleans Review, and elsewhere. Her poems received first place for The Florida Review’s 2006 Editors’ Award, and honorable mentions for the 2005 James Hearst Poetry Prize and the 2006 New Letters Award.
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