top of page

"All Things Are Poison, And Nothing Is", "Dwarf Planet"...by Hibah Shabkhez

All Things Are Poison, And Nothing Is


The sleek silhouettes and tips of their words

Dropped like wrappers on footpaths in the night

Go playing darkness, darkness, darkness – light!

With my blended-egg-yolk brain. It writhes, kneads

Pain, sloshing and frothing behind the beads

They call my eyes.


Past all their cries

I slide, and from the pulsing crook of birds’

Wings pressed into floating foam, I wring out

A truth strong and clear as a child’s mad shout,

And as brutally shushed. I drop away

Return to them and the barbed every-day.


I conjure mists, they martel through in glee,

So I turn to this. Cubes of death and bliss,

Come. Sweeten and quicken this draught for me.



Dwarf Planet


My rocks, orbiting the relentless Sun

Ache more than yours, o Earth. Two hundred years

Of your giddy merry-go-round, and one

Year of my toil is not done. Yet your spears –

Whom may Time soon rend! –


Your tubes tilted to the sky, peering past

Your single serene Moon bathed in sunlight

Sufficed to cast me out! So, yours will last

As my five dim, melt into their own night,

Seeking their own end,


Betrayed by the System. Even Neptune,

My first neighbour, my best friend, turns away

From me now, for the Sun too sings your tune

And calls me ice-dwarf. Earth, do you betray

Thus all you befriend?



It’s Pure Laziness, I Tell You


The bones plant me firmly on the work-chair

The eyes rivet themselves to the right screen -

Down comes the monkey and steals the brain’s keys.


The lizard clicks at it with a sour glare

Screaming of deadlines and of being seen

Idling thus. Terror seeps into the knees

But the monkey will not yield me the keys


No the monkey will not yield me the keys,

Though down in the curling stomach’s last pit

The magma whispers to the flaking crust

‘Nothing really does rhyme with horror


No terror nor honour nor humour fit

This bill. Break now, weakling. For I too must

Have my day in the sun to turn purple.’


But when the crust erupts, laughing though dead

It pours out a murky white stained with red.



Vulture


Your kite is a scavenger, just like me

Yet with the kite you soar, rejoice

In its dive, yearn to fly as far and free.

Your hearts lift, not stop, at its cry.


For I am the one you bind to the death

You cause. The one waiting for breath

To fade out of the children you famished.

I am the ill-omen, banished -


Your hawk is a scavenger, just like me

And not just when it has no choice

Your symbol of valour and grace can be

Found stripping the dead just like I


When all is said and done,

I will still repel you.

Could it be

Quite simply

That you find me ugly?




Hibah Shabkhez is a writer of the half-yo literary tradition, an erratic language-learning enthusiast, and a happily eccentric blogger from Lahore, Pakistan. Her work has previously appeared in Plainsongs, Microverses, Sylvia Magazine, Better Than Starbucks, Post, Wine Cellar Press, and a number of other literary magazines. Studying life, languages, and literature from a comparative perspective across linguistic and cultural boundaries holds a particular fascination for her.





Comments


bottom of page