Rear Window by Mariam Saidan
I
Stuck to my window
it tells passers-by all they need to know
little sprouts
fighting each other
secretly aiming for the heavens
“burn me sun,
take me”
they’ve only begun to begin
(but no one can even see)
This window
a reminder of
unfinished “finished” tasks
continuous crying
“to live more or
to make more”
I water my small plate of wheat
supposed to be green for Nowruz
broken cafetière in the sink
instant coffee should do
the desk-lamp still on,
light so lost in daylight
“don’t turn me off”
wine-bottle, half empty
full half staring out
small empty bowl holding a spoon inside
steady
holding tight -
there’s nothing fine about it.
books
untouched books
mocking brown little lampstand with a shelf underneath
perfect corner for
Max Porter, Meena Kandasamy, Jenny Offill, Ali Smith
- they’re allowed to touch, probably don’t need permission to go out
a row of socks on the radiator
reaching upwards, wilting as the sprouts cry out for sun
life dries inside
black and white, pink and gold - not flowers but laundry
a t-shirt stretching out, feeling its way to the light
a guitar posing for the room
happy to be part of this game of
“trying”
trying to be part of this game of
“happy”
a surface cleaner
losing its colour in the reflection
blending in with the mask-wearing runners
“take me, take me with you”
“burn me”
II
I hear steps
jogging
“just around where you live”
ATTESTATION DE DÉPLACEMENT DÉROGATOIRE
(every time you leave your flat)
“just around where you live”
I signed one this morning
I join them where we’re gathered
to be distant,
avoid eye contact
masks make funny noises as they meet
- I can’t breathe -
coming back,
my steps feel lighter, getting close,
contentment creeps in.
Sprouts,
I can’t see them from here