Three poems

Hibah Shabkhez

Grant Me This Book, Writer

Base-born child of your sour pen,
  Wretched thesis, I let my plea
Fall upon your pain-stopped ears,
  As a raindrop pleads with the sea.
For the love you give your poems
  I dare not ask; just write me.


​
Now for Ruin

I tell secrets to water, earth, fire, air
     Half-hoping for a magic flute to set
Me free, like the donkey-eared prince made fair
     Once upon a time. There is no answer.
 
The noticing branch is scarred by my words;
     The heedless lily floats on. Sand, grower
Of cacti, flees its own mirages, birds,
     Lizards entrusted with eternity.


​
Zuches Are Still Sentient, No?

The threads that bind me are silk, doux
  Et soyeux. One pull will transform
Them into irons that chafe through
  Skin, and bite into flesh;
I shall smile, and keep on
    Tugging.
 
I shall watch the fluffy clouds make
Flameless dragons, and brainstorm
  Questions. Is it funny to take
Boys through war's bloody thresh
  Singing of fried oignons?
Do chopped-tree stumps feel
    Nothing?
​

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Hibah Shabkhez is a writer of the half-yo literary tradition, an erratic language-learning enthusiast, and a happily eccentric blogger from Lahore, Pakistan. Her work has previously appeared in Black Bough, Zin Daily, London Grip, The Madrigal, Acropolis Journal, Lucent Dreaming, and a number of other literary magazines. Studying life, languages, and literature from a comparative perspective across linguistic and cultural boundaries holds a particular fascination for her. Linktree: https://linktr.ee/HibahShabkhez