No Home in This Land

Someday I Will Be No More

This house will become a haven of ghosts,

a recluse for dead things to reincarnate in

the smell of dust that billows in each room;

in the frames of portraits hanging on the walls;

in the silence that remains after the death

of a beloved. Someday I will lie in bed, lifeless,

my body and my dreams ceased

by the hurried hand of a clock. Someday I will

be no more and this house will remain unoccupied,

a heritage left untouched except by the inevitable

presence of dense silence, by the cracks invented

by time, by the rust created by sun. Someday I

will leave and never return to sit on those sofas,

to watch the TV and giggle, to dine on this table,

to sip water from the jug there, to sleep in bed

as dusk arrives, to laugh at stories sweetened

by the lips of Grandpa, to learn from the mystery

that hides in his grey hair. Someday I will become

a coffin decked with bouquets of flowers; a coffin

bearing sand, lowered into the grave; waved at

by mourners who, after the funeral, will continue

to live, as usual.

Rasaq Malik