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Penguin
Suicide
By Shazia Hafiz Ramji
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Werner Herzog tells me about penguins in the arctic,
one rushing to the mountain, away from the
others, little being
driven by its own gales. Outside you are
in your favourite place, under the tree,
asleep
or pretending to be. The sun stretches its
flayed limbs
over your taut legs, your dandelion head.
I like to imagine you are on the other side
of the window
—angry with me for rushing to work, for
hiding in the toilet,
writing things you choose not to think. But
it is this:
I need to see you weedy and sour, the window
between us.
I need to see you sunspots and smile lines,
rings of ice in your blue eyes. I need to
see us, alone
—both of us. It is how we learn to be
together,
not facing each other at all.
Shazia
Hafiz Ramji knows
what is lost.
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