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•   A BIANNUAL LITERARY MAGAZINE BROUGHT TO YOU BY DESI WRITERS' LOUNGE   •

Volume 7


Outside: Looking In - January 2011


Verse

Asnia Asim

Written by
Asnia Asim

Asnia Asim has been thinking in rhyme since the age of five. She works in Boston for a health care company and aspires to be a writer who challenges ideologies and dogmas with the music of words.

        
      
       
            
              

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Love Synthesized


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swimming in white kitchen light I saw
your suicidal face
wrapped in a disproportionate beard

a little boy trapped in a net of
unkind facial hair
a little boy mummified in bandages
long enough to suffocate time

I almost
strained the knife into my finger’s quiet bone
when scientific voices rose from a tv blur

we can synthesize life now, yes
we can, he said
all we need is dna

can you imagine how
I almost
thought of a letter
to the spectacled scientist “not playing god”

a letter about the guiltless gap
between your creamy teenage teeth
about halle berry’s poster still sleeping
in the boyish depth of your spiderman sheets
from which
will you believe

I almost
found an abandoned hair
sitting without you on your pillow
– a little black bottle of your genetic potion –
and do you know

I almost
sent it to the scientist with serious lips
glued a stamp with gooey drops
of blood thickening on my finger

I almost
told him how I wanted you back
in the wrinkle of my womb
synthesized as who you were meant to be
wearing bright beachy t-shirts
with faded numbers resting on your chest

smiling at jungles of forbidden dreams
through the metallic mist of your braces
wearing unislamic jeans
listening to some blasphemy in rock

I almost
materialized my steps to the office of post
wore the blue sweater you passionately hate
but then the scientist humbly
began to disclaim
it is not exactly 100% synthesis,
he said
it’s not like we can bring dead sons back

he threw a long black look at me
straight in the eyes
his stare did not fade
even when

I almost
turned off the tv
and did not look at the neon stickers
patiently rotting on your door
even when

I almost
never cooked what you loved
even when

I almost
never cried

 

 

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