Qamar Firdaus Saini: “Pale Lights (This Will Destroy You Remix)”
This poem has been formatted for desktop viewing. If you are reading on mobile, we recommend you view this page in landscape mode.
i.
a month before new year’s eve, we ascend fifty storeys.
the lift door opens and we follow fairies, lights, into the
night. a stage erect, the middle, a band leading worship.
we stand so close to the moon it hears us sing. you hold
up five fingers
—this is the number for grace. our palms press against
each other as fingers collapse into their natural positions.
by the end of praise, our arms are lifted to the sky. hands
scrabble clouds for rain.
ii.
i glimpse you in a dream and you call me the next day.
we lay out a map nearby, scry for bumps, rend each segment
until it bleeds. one night we find a portion that turned red.
iii.
in my dreams your hair is streaked blue
always, i miss you.
iv.
here, this universe, we are sermons underneath a colourless sky.
we sit a couple of breaths away from the pastor. our faces sparkle.
i shine only in parts. an arm curls over an elbow. a head finds
a shoulder. i close my eyes.
after forty sleeps i grasp how to find you:
i picture the number five when i close my
eyes. i call your name in hebrew.
v.
on sundays, we scale the mountain you call star pac. you say it lost
its t over a promise: a pact between two lovers without a cross
to anchor the ending. is destiny the end of a journey?
standing at a plateau, i dive into a lake. flesh submerges,
surfaces with a name. i am david. stars reflect off of my skin.
vi.
the next day i spit out a tongue. you slice it in two for dinner that night.
you cannot fall asleep, so we watch the moon grow.
i wake before dawn to find you kneeling beside me. you pray for forgiveness,
beg for a portion of our memories.
a week after, we are anointed gifts. i scoop you off of our bed,
walk on tracks of never-ending light. we arrive, safe.
vii.
at macritchie, my body cradles yours. somehow i kneel in front of you.
in every tongue i did not know, i recite lullabies gleaned from our spirits,
rub our palms against one another. a poem tumbles out. i raise my hands,
glorify the hidden sea. i heave, cleave our hearts in two, scrub the halves
in parts. i lay you above the water, watch as the moon and then the night
swallows you.
viii.
this is the forest you go to when you are empty.
follow the song of the leafbird along the trail
where the mousedeer streams to macritchie.
here, the stars worship with you where we lay.
i cast their light upon the reservoir of hymns,
steal your nightmares so you can sing hallelujah
when you wake. i lie on the bed, mouth your name
to sleep, and poems tumble, leaven into script.
how many hearts can you give a poem before
it wakes? i am the moon, the night your blanket.
ix.
how many poems can you give a heart before it takes?
this is the memory that clings: we run
after the train for service, slip in the closing doors.
my arm curves into the small of your back.
i scry for bumps. your temple finds my clavicle.
Qamar Firdaus Saini is in the public service and is especially fond of Explosions in the Sky. He writes to remember. His recent poems are in Cordite Poetry Review, Quarterly Literary Review Singapore, and other anthologies by Singapore-based presses, and in works commissioned by the National Gallery and the Singapore Art Museum, among others. He was a volunteer organiser for Sing Lit Station’s Manuscript Bootcamp, and is currently a member of ATOM, a writing collective.
