15.1 Spring/Summer 2017

Dilruba Ahmed Lowlight

 

My dress made of Mylar, cinched
            at the elbows and hips. Like a helium

balloon, I can’t help fluttering
            at the ceiling for a bird’s eye view

of the party: red punch cups spilled
            on white carpet like a crime scene, gifts

already shredded open.
                                  Caught in a loop,

the guests keep removing
            their shoes as though approaching

a mosque doorstep. The music hiccups
            to make a vocalist’s wail

cyclical, the needle scraping
            as someone familiar and alien tries

and fails to light the silver candles.
            Chattered words rise

into a headwind that hinders
            my movement. I want to return

to where the cake will be sliced
            and shared, to snuff the candles

no one can light anyway.
            The closer I try to pull

toward the orbit of beloveds,
            the greater the distance between us.

 


Dilruba Ahmed’s book, Dhaka Dust (Graywolf Press, 2011), won the Bakeless Prize.  Her poems have appeared in American Poetry Review, New England Review, and Poetry. New work will appear in Alaska Quarterly Review, Copper Nickel, and Kenyon Review.

 

*Hear Anne-Marie Thompson’s response to “Lowlight” in our Contributors’ Marginalia series.