The dying, backlit at my fingers, resurrect in my dreams.
My dreams resurrect the dying— they die at my fingers.
A trigger finger points at God, then every grave:
a prayer rug. Every breath — prayer. A Muslim boy
opens his mouth and a swarm of bullets riddles the air.
The air gasping for air. Everywhere seems ablaze
with a rung of light the dying are promised, and I set out
to render the light, but keep kneeling in blood. The dying,
backlit at my fingers, resurrect in my dreams— a swarm
of mothers, their mouths howling, empty bowls. Empty bowels
rub the children down to bone. Barren wombs gather
tumbleweeds and grief. Grief gathers, but no gatherings.
The grieving, backlit at my fingers, tell the story of a brother
on his way home from morning prayers. All that’s left of Anwar
is his foot. They will find a way to bury this, as they always do.
Contributor’s Notes
Sanam Sheriff is a queer poet and artist from Bangalore, India. She has received support from the Thomas J. Watson Fellowship, The Watering Hole, Pink Door, and is a Pushcart Prize Nominee. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Virginia Quarterly Review, The Academy of American Poets, The Offing, Vinyl Poetry & Prose, Black Warrior Review, Shade Literary Arts and elsewhere. She holds an MFA in Poetry from Washington University in St. Louis.
