The Art of Weaving Time

Maybe you forgot, or dementia possessed you

before our union—how else could you keep aloof

from your soul, your other soul, your eupnoea?

You whispered in my ear, later asserting openly

how heart unites life to life, turns an enemy to a friend—

now everyone waits for a time to raze cells or heal.

I never wanted this awful detention, my love, when

microbes deface the world, scowling as ostensibly

invincible monsters, wreaking havoc with indemnity.

Nowhere does anyone dream to pass a lonely time

but the elusive assassin is driving us towards isolation

from our realm where we breathe with our souls.

Slipping into an invisibility outfit, the killer casts

a curved look at the humans all over the world,

giggling loud as if to mollify fury, rising from hell.

I'm waiting for a time, now quarantined within

vicious circles, to incite the frozen nerves of the world—

like a young woman weaving a quilt I weave time.

Mohammad Shafiqul Islam—poet, translator, and author of Inner State—teaches English literature at Shahjalal University of Science and Technology, Sylhet 3114, Bangladesh.