Dilruba Ahmed
Venice During an Election Year in the U.S.
We learn what we love
when it’s half-sunk:
a ship’s hull slipping
from vision, just a tip
visible to remind us of its
hidden bulk.
Entire cities sink
without solution.
A piazza’s bricks
succumb to floods.
Tourists. Cellists. Pigeons.
There’s silver water
putrid with fish-stink,
littered paper
lapping in canals. Wilted lilies.
Each day bears the pull
of a dead weight.
To our left,
a bobber shudders
on a cast line
before it dips
and disappears.
To our right,
someone’s trawl breaks.
Cathedral
I take care to pick a seat
untouched by sun to hide
my face from the believers.
In a house of worship where
I’ve never knelt,
I watch pilgrims press
forward with small donations, touching
wicks to those already lit, adding
heat to the chorus.
I’ve long wanted to
stand at the altar, to light
my wick with the flame
of another.
I have wanted to sing.
Rumor
Rumor had it
she jogged the river trail
in a sari. Chiffon layers
draping crooked arms,
atchel flying
in the wind. Her white
running shoes pounding
along the Hocking.
She blurred
into a mad red
bird. Through screened
windows, I heard a flurry
of silk or slapping
soles—I could nearly
see damp tendrils
on her neck. Faceless,
she flew
over houses and fields while
I searched the sky for her
sweat-soaked sari, longed
for a glimpse
of her unraveling bun.