Malik

 

Malik

 

They feel pressure, a stress

of a shared thing, huge divides

and something scuttles inside

her courageous heart.

 

 

      On one side

here’s your inscrutable audience,

in blank rows and she cannot read

the script on the lines of the faces.

They have taken their places

in silence, save for children

who fill in the books by bawling,

stabbing at phones, cat calling,

and all are waiting for traces

of dispensable wit, disposable facts

among pratfalls and maudlin acts.

 

 

We’re opposite.

She feels the weight of the young,

her colleagues who’ve never sung

on this stage yet, or felt the press

of rolling eyes, silent sighs

the guillotining of the breath

refused passage, choked throats,

the glottis stopped. Waiting turns

as what was bold and firm

by minutes melts to jelly,

craven crawling in the belly.

With each passing speaker

and each finished teacher,

ticking moments come closer.

 

 

                        Now

she smiles, takes the microphone.

Upon her cheeks where roses grow,

beauty from her lips is flowing,

in sweet perfumes and pure.

‘This little language in your hand

is a small purse of coins to spend

but wisely, choose your moment

and it will surely be just as potent

as anything else you’ll gain in life.’

 

 

Just as quickly sitting down,

and as these little words resound,

perhaps hearts within that pound

will take just a little more or less.