by Rafiq Kathwari
As a boy, I stole
into grandpa’s study.
An art merchant,
he loved books
with gilded edges,
Aristotle to Zola
all stuck together
in the humidity.
I snuck Lo out
to his black Chevy,
rifled for dirty bits,
steering her away
for a spin,
teen tunes swirling
in my head. ‘I want
to hold your hand.”
We hovered
over a valley
ringed
by sharp mountains,
white turbans on peaks.
Lake Dal,
in the hem,
polished by a soft breeze.
A paisley-shaped river
sobbed through a dazed valley:
Amputated
tree trunks screamed,
reams of plastic
choked icy streams.
Barbed wire
hedged the Shalimar
Tongas and Toyotas
jammed the bazaars.
An ancient Sufi shrine
oddly gutted,
its rich lattice-work lost.
New architecture
showed no awe
for nature.
Half- widows wailed,
clawed at mass graves,
yearning
for their disappeared.
Nightingales
sang of joy, not sorrow.
At Zero Bridge,
lilacs by bunkers bloomed.
A fighter jet
sound-boomed—
startled stray dogs
howled.
In Grandpa’s black Chevy,
Lolita slipped from my lap
as we returned from
a foreboding odyssey.
Rafiq Kathwari is a guest poet at 3 Quarks Daily.