Matuail tripping like currents on peep toe flats. Grabbing him by the sleeve. Plaid. It’s called plaid. But you don’t listen and I don’t really know for sure, and they look at me funny when I try to sieve through their retail wardrobe hangers for what we called muslin, before the banks of the Meghna contracted to spell a gorge, proud to have fought hunger, then tant, with cotton, georgette, airlifted through tarrifs, de-thumbed and knelt down, half-mast, at the folding of the pleats.
All of a sudden it is 2011; the fireworks exhibit Felani in a scissor scarf and, in arabic class; the teacher really likes you, rehearses you like hashtags at the expense of the national archives.
Downtown, H&M, why are there charred, lightly dusted fingers near where he scans the bar-code, where there should be, we thought, blue jumpsuits, and yellow hard hats, and parchment tanned at 41 °C lipping bangla, nepalese and malyalam, plotting industrial murder out of Sonapur to appease the religious police, to recite that, in fact, it was their highnesses of the seven emirates who built this city.
Wondering how that A-line would fit me; they’re making it look so easy: floral print and a beer belly sleeping stare only a cool girl could really could pull off living a diet of a singara at fajr.
He is talking like baba. Actively dispiriting. Opening the barrage to barsha, marooning uncommitted syllables; the words stuck to the hull of his teeth. flanked by crows sitting washing lines, parables for fleeing villagers. Draping his bob, asymmetric on concrete, microwaving the blueprints on how to break this unearned silence:
‘i mean, they were
sleeping pills but they were also thought fighting pills’
Him with This is the Last Dance and no foreplay, no sand, no mosquitoes, no largess of gosht.
Her no fucks to give hurdle over this heresy for a building code returns us to the erasure in khoda hafez.