Melt All the Candles Until They Go Out

(after “Khuttar” by Ilham Madfai)

Put more cardamom in the black tea.

I have come to see you after so long.

You open your arms —

long arms, beautiful fingers.

You stroke my cheek and tell me I’ve grown.

I am the khuttar, arriving

with a small lantern. Joy

might visit us unexpectedly.

Hang the lit candles anyway.

I felt you across rivers and seas,

dying slowly. Joy is a guest

that passes in the night.

You are too tender to be alone.

Your son has passed away.

Your lover has grown stale

with waiting.

I remember sadness in Iraq —

I grow angry at our sorrowful stories.

Your eyes part like doves when you ask

how long I will stay.

I bring gifts to illuminate your face,

creams and perfumes for your sweet room.

I think of Aziz Al Samawi,

exiled for being a lover.

Your prison here,

keeps the tragedy safe.

We want to dance and laugh and cut cake

with the lights turned off.

You wait.

There is still a quiet

despite the noise your eyes make.

The real anguish is anticipation —

waiting for a guest,

waiting for tears,

the waiting itself.

You touch the tablecloth.

The table. The cups.

My time is brief here

yet part of me will remain.

The worst of your life has passed.

That is what I came to say.

Maryam Alsaied