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October 15, 2019 Poetry

Poem at Ten

Tamer Sa’id Mostafa

Poem at Ten photo

for my mother, after Sonia Sanchez

It is late, mid-July
in the valley’s heat
sheathed in grooves.
I dribble a basketball,
don’t look down
at the earth
filming the leather.
I speak to god
for the first time,
the threshold
of my marrow,
that no one can tell me
about me
about entombing
the shrieks so deep
under the night,
like a lost keepsake,
twining my words
with the strain
of silk strings.
But you are here
near the end of a spiel
listening in the dark
on a webbed lawn chair
and heaven is somewhere
heavy under your soles.
Here is my spirit
turning back
to name the days
we’ll leave behind.



image: Doug Paul Case