For Someone I Have Wronged

A grief, edges sharpened to a sliver,

Was wrapped in jade

And entombed like a Chinese Emperor.

It suffered no softer in earth

To unfurl and bloom

In rain;

Or whispered in dusty quarters,

No louder than water;

Lest the listener step away.

To ask for forgiveness is not hard,

Once bled, twice shed;

Something wells up eventually,

Something confusing

And many-times born;

Something with a mythical constitution,

Like a Majnu or Ghazi Miyan;

Something stained with history,

This grief— like a cleaver

Frothing in poppy; and

Coming down on a Clive’ly head.

Something inside wants to be forgiven

Always; I have to face myself,

And face you again—

To ask for forgiveness is not hard;

The pain is in the poverty of waiting,

Of not knowing how to say it,

Of resorting to poetry.