Society Hill

By: Farhan Yousaf

 

The first time I thought of death was after iftar.

My father promised

to walk for slurpees only after our bellies were full

with prayer.

I remember he gifted his hand

to me. I held it.

 

His coarse palms, cigarette-stained fingernails.

How worlds lived in the indents, his skin

coming apart like an aged toy.

 

A coke slushee, at its end, will refuse to come out.

He moved the straw in circles,

to loosen the leftovers. He brought his lips

to the cup, its cap off. He handed it back to me

though I yearned for him to take more.

The remnants held a faint taste of tobacco.

 

I wanted god to take me then.

With his rough hands and the stink

of his mixed cologne. How if this was heaven,

I’d believe without hesitation.

 

How I wanted to taste death before we raised our hands

                                                                                                                                                                                          for the next 

                      prayer.