Homeless

By HUSSAIN AHMED

 

I woke up to a frozen neighborhood. 

I wondered how it ever bloomed 

After it got so white and lonely. 

Where do the birds hide when it snowed?

I have many questions, but I can only ask my reflection

From the mirror, anytime I wash my face 

Before another salaat. 

Each time, this is what it means to be in khalwa.

You whisper names you know Allah bears. 

With each repetition, you asked what names only you want to call God

That no one may know. That’s how we learn to love.

I have a name for everyone I loved that is no more.

Baba didn’t know this garden is never free of weeds.

Where do the homeless sleep when it’s all cold?

They go back to God’s house, it is the only time they are allowed.

On other days, how come their families don’t come for them?

I don’t have answers to his many questions, I sighed instead 

And prayed that God would forever leave His doors open, 

Even when it’s not snowing, even when the grasses are back up.

 

Hussain Ahmed is a Nigerian, poet, and environmentalist. He received an MFA in poetry from the University of Mississippi. His poems are featured in AGNI, Poetry Magazine, Kenyon Review, A Public Space, and elsewhere. He is the author of Soliloquy with the Ghosts in Nile.

[Purchase Issue 24 here.]

From the beginning, The Common has brought you transportive writing and exciting new voices. We are committed to supporting writers and maintaining free, unrestricted access to our website, but we can’t do it without you. Become an integral part of our global community of readers and writers by donating today. No amount is too small. Thank you!

Homeless

Related Posts

rebecca on a dock at sunset

Late Orison

REBECCA FOUST
You & I will grow old, Love, / we have grown old. But this last chance // in our late decades could be like the Pleiades, winter stars seen by / Sappho, Hesiod & Galileo & now by you & me. // Let us be boring like a hollow drill coring deep into the earth to find / its most secret mineral treasures.

Waiting for the Call I Am

WYATT TOWNLEY
Not the girl / after the party / waiting for boy wonder // Not the couple / after the test / awaiting word // Not the actor / after the callback / for the job that changes everything // Not the mother / on the floor / whose son has gone missing // I am the beloved / and you are the beloved

Sasha Burshteyn: Poems

SASHA BURSHTEYN
The slagheap dominates / the landscape. A new kurgan / for a new age. High grave, waste mound. / To think of life / among the mountains— / that clean, clear air— / and realize that you’ve been breathing / shit. Plant trees / around the spoil tip! Appreciate / the unnatural charm! Green fold, / gray pile.