black sheep

A black sheep fell into a drugged slumber and dreamt of a bird. It fluttered into a room that was no more; its colours flashing feverishly whenever they caught the sun. It alighted upon the sheep’s extended limb and poured its secrets into a black ear. Were they questions? Were they answers? The sheep did not know. But it listened because no bird had ever shown any interest in it before.

The bird pecked gently at a tuft of wool with its velvet beak before taking flight. It flew out an open window, past flowering creepers that bloomed at dusk. It soared into the clouds; the tuft of wool in its mouth streaming behind like a dark vapour trail. The sheep watched until the sky was consumed by the blackness of its fleece. And, turning away, it caught the first whiff of an evening flower as it burst into bloom.

a vision of my country in the distant future

it's 250 years later,
we're afloat in the ocean,
we have an exclusive economic zone.
we don't have a true shoreline
or sand.
sometimes there are tidalwave alerts
which no one heeds
except the elderly because
they don't want their homes
to move without prior warning.

children fish from porches
and play in kelp farms.
grownups work
at desalination plants,
at floating power stations
or in kelp farms.
mothers are expected to know how to make:
oyster cakes,
seaweed salads,
prawn casseroles,
wetsuits.

everyone still speaks dhivehi
with friends, wives, colleagues,
but no one speaks beyfulhu language
except for poets.
and those who speak beyfulhu language
are considered poets.
and shunned.
especially by other poets
who, as children, never fished from porches
and dream mostly about the ocean.
and speak of the beyfulhu ghosts
they glimpse in its depths.

music

She was tired. But he wanted to play her a tune on the upright piano all the same. He’d hummed it all the way home. It tinkled inside his head. She was tired of it. She wanted silence. But she was too fond of him to tell him. So she sat with him and listened. His hands swept over the keys in swift little strokes. It sounded better on the piano. He played for a few minutes. Then he stopped and let his hands rest on the keyboard. She moved closer to him. He looked at her.

“Well?”

“You know I don’t like any of that fast stuff”

“That wasn’t fast. That’s exactly how it’s meant to be.”

“I don’t like how it’s meant to be, then.”

“You’ve never liked my playing.”

“Oh, you know that’s not true now Ghaib.”

“You never did!”

“I didn’t say it was bad just then. Said I didn’t like it. Other people might, you know”

“But it’s for you, it came to me while I was walking with you. All right. Look. I’ll play it slow. OK? Slow. Just for you”


He played it again, slowly. She listened. It’s not unpleasant, she thought.

“It’s good. I like it much better now.”

She got up and walked towards the sofa. She sat facing the window. She saw the hills in the distance. They swam yellow and green in the heat. She reclined, facing away from him. He continued to play. The melody is infectious, she thought. She began to hum it softly.

It was dark when she woke. She got up and switched on the light. It swung gently from the ceiling, making the shadows sway back and forth. She stood looking at them until they stopped. She turned her face to the piano. The seat was empty. She went and opened the keyboard cover. There were no keys underneath. She shrugged and started humming.

There was a tap on the window. She looked and saw him. He grinned at her with a mouthful of ivories. Behind him stood a grave man holding a clipboard. More sheet music, she thought.

deathbed

you're on your deathbed
alone as you've always feared
the walls are red
and flickering with silhouettes
the ceiling is alive
with insects, humming
your funeral dirge

a breath falls
on your face
smelling like Mother
like her orange peels
she kept in a vase
with clumps of her hair.
a warm, cloying breath
that leaves quickly
like a shadow down the stairs.

morning song

tomorrow is today
and the great flies of morning
leap from cold window panes
and turn into slush inside frogs
in the grass, moistened by dewdrops

you can't fix it, mister cricket. it's broken and your chirping hurts my ears. but it's empty when you stop. so empty. i wish the stereo still worked.

children

such terrible things, she wept. such terrible things he did. she had the children with her she said. clean, innocuous things. yet she seemed frightened to bare them to the world, so they remained in her shadow, the shadow children. they had seen terror, smelled its rank breath on their tiny faces. but never again.
but she knew why. and the children knew because she did. because the children knew all she knew and felt long before she opened her mouth to tell them. she sometimes wondered how, but the beatings. the beatings took all wonderment out of her. so the children knew - this was the brute fact and she stopped wondering. but not before he took her tongue, teeth and eyes, which he ripped from her body and fed her one cool purple dawn. but he never struck the children. and the children knew and did nothing.
but she knew why.
the devil was in them. and she was patient.
she heard his screams as they flew at him one day. at midday. she heard the thin ripping sounds as their claws tore his skin and dug into his flesh. she heard the dull spatter of the first spurt of blood hit the wall. and she heard their chittering laughter, and it filled her with a fear as deep as her affection for them. for they were hers. they were his too, and for a moment he stood before her, his black wings covering the horizon.