We share with each other the names
of our dying. We buy oranges in cities
gnawing then burying the cadavers
of their own opulent dreams.
We tell each other to dream.
When you send me pictures
you’re collecting of women
in your family smiling, I unhinge.
It is like this. The night is our hair
inking the torsos of men into reliquaries.
I don’t know why we don’t know our own holiness,
but once you were a little girl, and so was I.
Tarfia Faizullah, Registers of Illuminated Villages
5 notes · View notes