The Year of the Plague

In the next house, someone lies dying
In the next house, someone lies dead;
     I dare not send the flowers lying
Vase-coffined. Every drooping head
With its last, rasping breaths is crying:
We too were shorn in the spring of our lives;
     When is our grand funeral?

In the next house, someone lies dying
In the next house, someone lies dead;
     I dare not pause the voices crying
Out verb forms in new tongues. Like bread
Baked from strange recipes and lying
Uneaten, if you cannot say words right,
     They must be fed to the tide.

Hibah Shabkhez is a writer of the half-yo literary tradition, an erratic language-learning enthusiast, and a happily eccentric blogger from Lahore, Pakistan. Her work has previously appeared in Zin Daily, Litbreak, Broadkill, Rising Phoenix, Big City Lit, Constellate, Harpy Hybrid, and a number of other literary magazines. Studying life, languages, and literature from a comparative perspective across linguistic and cultural boundaries holds a particular fascination for her. Linktree: https://linktr.ee/HibahShabkhez