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

Caribbean picture

Self-Portrait in The Caribbean

PAOLA ASSAD BARBARINO
Sometimes I am emboldened, / I decide to stand in the people’s balcony / I decide it is Maundy Thursday I decide to place a priest behind me that can speak to the people behind / my back / I decide to put out the fire and light my throat / scream

Feltspade

ELIAS SADAQ
I serve out my conscription / sleep in a bunk bed / for four cold months / in the engineer regiment at Skive Garrison / in a room with three other men / I fuck the colonel / the only sign that time is passing / is a pile of snow outside the window / that grows smaller

Book cover of Fifty Mothers

Mother is a Kind of Holding: Jenny Qi interviews Preeti Vangani

PREETI VANGANI
With vignettes, I could plumb its narrative arc to become a force propelling the book forward. It also felt haunting yet warm that the mothers kept reappearing throughout the life of this grief. That repetition created a chorus of voices that angers and despairs, yet cradles the speaker.