by Zain Aslam
There was a pleather jacket hanging
off the doorknob. There was
a moon. It was a comma.
There was Saad & then there was me.
There was a song about virgins
by Madonna. There was a mirror
in the bathroom that watched me pee.
There was Saad, there was a key
-hole, there was a feather. There was a jacket
breaking down from the weather.
There was a promise we’d ignored
to our mother. There was Saad resting
his eyes like a kitten. There was a pair of shots
sent from the end of the bar. There was a thanks,
mumbled in German. There was a vision
of matching tattoos to our Mom on our arms.
There was a mirror in the bathroom that watched
Saad as he peed. There was a kebab that I ate off the floor.
There was a moon. It was a comma,
which locked the front door. There was a ritual
that moved with an oar. There was a puddle, it rippled,
then it ripped up the mother. There was a goodbye
that was smuggled with some gold. There was a moon,
it was a comma, named for a song by Madonna.
There was a night. Was it a night? It was a lull.
There was a dildo in place of a door. There was a colon.
There was a moonlight which shivered in the cold.
Zain Aslam was born in Karachi, Pakistan. His poetry has appeared in Sink Review, Bodega Magazine, and the Jai Alai Books anthology Eight Miami Poets, along with a few other places. I Don't Remember, his limited edition pamphlet, was released through Edinburgh based micro-publisher If A Leaf Falls Press. He's also a Poetry Editor for The Rumpus and currently lives in San Francisco, CA.