Hamayle Saeed is an accidental physician and deliberate poet; moonlighting as an aspiring eponymous disease in Lahore, Pakistan. Her work has previously appeared or is forthcoming in Papercuts, Rough Cut Press and Amethyst Review.
I've learned to slobber over thorns my tongue a careening mess we were never meant for the florals of firsts or the sap of viscid love-laced stems, blooms of a scarlet red. Ours was a rickety terrain, all hourglass sand & dune with the occasional mirage perched on a cactus moon.
I don't fetishize my holiness/but I try to knead the rosary so it twists/ like a noose on my finger/cut off blood supply long enough/flesh flails/does faith/are you lucky enough to be born into religion/or vowed to it/after/yours sincerely god/my god who came before me or the god I birthed after/some days I can't tell/pledge thyself and thy shall be/night inks the evening/waves permeate the air/compressions and rarefactions/physics studded with divinity/like a stone in a pond/ripples born/with the distance/an undulating death/the water is never the same for it/as is the air/some respond/most try/at least we try/we try/we have lived like this for long/but not long enough/my lord atop/my lord in the senses/my lord shining/everything and nothing all at once/his infinitude/my vicissitudes/my lord basked in praise/beset in my fear/not there but/always
I recently learned that a poet I revere is also an erasure artist. I could hardly make art of my own, let alone blank someone else's. White Bismol tablets, like the paint that still clogs the nostrils of my night. A deconstructed debility, the smell of ripe plums macerated on granite, you could serve me for dinner and I'd smile through the curettage. 3D printed jellies but the world is fickle and you are of the world, don't pretend you're better, if only you were better. Cut plastic rims before you discard them, lest you choke a life form already on its way out. Have your funeral and eat it too. Unsuspecting yellow eyes gawking, jellyfish dwindling in the duress of dire. Direly so you proclaim, this world is rot, have you no shame! All aplomb, none and yet all to blame. It chokes on oil, you burn in flame. It's all the same.
Tunnel Through Which The Light Shone in the Morning
blighted ovum of the night in the day the sheets
bear no witness absolute in creamy white
The blade licks me, Oblong in its gifts of wax. Like someone spreading jam with all the time in the world. And then the strip pulls away With the desperation of a cannibal I flinch in pain and perhaps, feigned pleasure Lord. When will I finally have sex?
I turn over or am turned Ah, my ass, sunny side up Wobbles with the weight of its weight Even light suicides, plunged into this cratered unseeming. Streaks of pearly cellulite Glint with the defiance of an experienced scarecrow. No. Who will have sex with me?