May 25, 2026

by AISHAT YAHKUB

We are ends and beginnings and we are the named

In the before, when the ocean was still & endless

before the dead arrived with their songs & soft wounds 

when the first star flowered onto the viscous spill of space

and pupil moon gliding across this face 

took its wrinkled orbit along and made the night 

with all of its dreams & hauntings

no one knew then that all of this 

was what was waiting to come of it

How could we,

We were all eggs, small, beautiful, riotous

ripe with promise—

what could, would we hatch into?

And then dawn, light-hungry, bleeding thing 

punctured through the veil 

and stripped us to the light.

We are glistening dream creatures, we have been watching you 

through the stones, & now we have followed you 

into the waking world, let us in

In this poem, we are end(les)s and beginnings and 

we are the continuous road and 

there’s only breathe & hunger

and we are named & capable of naming

names, lost, meaningless, encumbering things 

that will return, buried with us

When you gaze into eyes like ours, you will be burdened

by our age even though we are as new as you, 

just born with the sunset of the world

Recall how we strained atop the earth so 

we could catch the last honey of drowning, dripping sun 

over mountains that wouldn’t budge for our ancient thirst

You must realise then, we are very patient

You see,

We have been waiting to be born—

our inevitable wounds and aches straining 

for soft bodies to bruise.