By Mehran Waheed
“Papa! Papa!”
Your howls prey on my name,
shake the stars, rattle the moon,
shock my heart like a horse's head
on my deathbed; gasping to find
your paperweight mare strangling dreams,
hooves plunged into chest.
I rush to your bedside, nocturnal manners
expelled, to blanket you in cotton arms.
Pyjama skin clings, hair-pasted forehead,
sodden sheets and wiping cheeks
from your marble eyes, lost behind
the macabre dance of your mind.
Was it a piece of undigested cartoon,
twisted and repeated like tapeworm?
Forgive me, these inherited jinns,
moulding our night's blood
into clotted clowns, a bowl of cherry
screams, ticking crocodile bellies...
Rest assured, I will sentry the floor,
exorcise the shaitan waxing your ears,
light labyrinthine corridors,
guard the teddy bear bones
inside closet drawers, until
the plush pink of dawn.
But be warned my dear,
the old nag's teeth will grow
beneath the gummy soil.
Her reins tug at your rooted fears,
naysay through foreign fields.
My pen has mucked, fought and tended.
Harness your way, or
Ignore her at your peril.