Almirah Poem by Asad Zaidi

In the upper shelves of the almirah
there was, as ever, patience.
And silence too.
Below, so much lay scattered.
The things in search of which I had arrived
in this city,
I could find no trace of.
I went on putting –
on fly leaves of books, inside shirt pockets,
in the stitch of sweaters –
my name, the room number, the names of hostels,
addresses of the houses I had rented,
hoping for a form to emerge,
like the termite sensing the presence of wood,
or like the corpse getting identified by a washerman’s marker.

When you open this almirah,
the door, somewhat wobbly, lurches to a side.
There is so much that is no longer in memory.
It is no longer here either.
Whatever remains
looks like some dead man’s last will.

I understand that the things you gaze long and attentively at begin
to return your gaze.
When you have held the scissors for a long time,
you do begin to feel the urge to run them through something.