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In this month's Ujima WIRE, poet Afra Ahmad ruminates on the devastating nature of reminiscence and forlorn loss.
Ask a man
on a ventilator
with scant moments
left in this world
he'll let you know
how severe
the flame of
regret is. Don't
tell me you learn
from heartbreaks.
The enervated flames
expand,
resembling
undesirable cells
that smother frangible bones,
that prick shrivelled flesh,
that jab and
then draw the sabre out,
again and again.
Regret is a
cacophonous fire
louder than cries
of blood dropped
on the ground
during war,
competent enough
to render
you deaf
for the rest
of your
life;
regret fails to
extinguish,
even when pails of
cold water
(a sip of which
could save a dying man)
or soft-salmon joy
douse it,
even when treated
slowly and tenderly
(the way
physicians clean
wounds and
drape them
with milky gauze,
shower wounds with
a sprinkle
of care and a week's rest
and they will heal),
but the pain of regret
lasts;
this ache
never halts.
I have grieved
enough to know
you learn nothing.
You slowly devolve
into numbness.
Afra Ahmad (she/her) is a writer, poet, visual artist, and calligrapher. Based in Taiwan, she holds a Bachelor's degree in English Literature. She writes about everything under the sun: from dark issues of the society to problems faced by teenagers to imparting chunks of wisdom through her poems, stories and write-ups. Her works have appeared in various magazines including Iman collective, Afterpast Review, A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Punk Noir Magazine, and more. Find here written work here, and take a look at her visual artistry here.
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