When I Said Marrakech
I meant the stars not buried in skyscrapers
To you it was the scrape of a distant boyhood
I guess I still search for the child in me to heal
You love Manhattan more than you like to admit
Your eyes are a nighttime skyline of brightness
when your mouth is full of cityspeak
We embrace envisioning a Morocco that splits us apart
Love, Marrakech meant the stillness of us in bustling glimmer
surfing palms until we locked fingers
Instead, we hold hands on makeshift Brooklyn hilltops
You twirl me around wishing oblivion
Land me on the cliff your chest
Absorbed in the waves of your heartbeat
I forget my own
pray this love is maktub
Each bead on the the tasbih is a bone of your rib I try to move closer to mine
Dhikr reminds me your tenacity is a mountain I’m trapped under
Andmatters of troubled hearts seldom move mountains
Faith is a silly topic we circle when it does not keep us kind nor together
but circling past one another
We try to make this love holier than hellish
You call me habibi only in bed
Each breath of bismillah you exhale is a blasphemy
Utter God a thousand times
Your eyes still scream starvation; not ask
We are in hunger with each other all winter
I want to soak in every last drop of this spring
I am on the closest brink of departure
even if it means self-destruction
I’m on a bicycle headed to facelessness
I’m a bicycle with no breaks nor handlebars
I’m the bicycle’s back wheel drained of all its air
The wheel is my sinking heart
And my punctured heart lets out broken sighs
and huffs and puffs of anger mid-deflation
but turns around for one last glance
hoping you do the same
Amatan Noor is a queer Bangladeshi Muslim poet residing in Brooklyn. Her work explores the intersections of survival, Islam and diaspora. Her work has been published or is forthcoming on No, Dear magazine, Stone of Madness, The South Shore Review and elsewhere.
