When Anne Carson spoke centimeters away/ at the front of the hall/ her voice carried mist-like/ that floats across and wedges its way in the middle of my first and second rib/ becomes and booms as my inner monologue/ With a glistening cup of moly/ Anne Carson side-eyes Homer arguing with Aeschlyus arguing with Sophokles/ who watches Zeus perform tricks with a lightning bolt/ she looks at me/ in that voice like god remarks/ Not fabulous/ turns my eye sockets molten gold/ i wrap myself around the feeling/
In Toronto, reading Virginia Woolf
Earlier, earlier, when dusk came too early and the windows never thawed, when I was cursed with longing and a mist-filled headspace, when comfort was tongue-and-throat-scalding clear soup at midnight. Baba told me to breathe in, الحمداللہ; breathe out, الحمداللہ. I watch my breath materialize into fog, pale-silver, casting a sheen over my eyes. Mama tells me this is where Saturn and Jupiter are in the wrong phases, Pisces in the wrong house. I fall asleep as dawn’s rosy fingers approach, in the middle of tomorrow’s reading, catching slivers of poems under my pillow.
Sana Mohsin is a graduate student studying literature, dividing time between Lahore and Toronto. She likes nature imagery and tea, and napping during rainstorms. You can follow her on Twitter @filmvillian