he wants me to love his home
and the thicket of trees around
it, he wants my female heat to
surround it,

wants me to love how much
he spends on food, he wants me
to spend all my money, too. he wants me to
need the sparkle in
his straight white teeth,
rhythmic moves and poems
in his speech,

his six-figure job. his thousands of shoes.
the hats and the belts that he may
never use. he wants me to touch them,
he wants me to say that I can’t live
without them, they’ll make me stay.

he wants me to reach for him. but I don’t.
because what I’ll touch is what I
don’t want.

© 2012 Tahminah Zaman

The Sun is in Taurus now, right at its center, and I asked for many new gifts when the new moon came weeks ago. A cup waiting to be filled. And then she arrived, arrived on my terms, to tell me one more time before leaving that she still loves me. 5 years after our breakup.

I don’t react at first, I like seeing her, she doesn’t drain me at first. Not that much. Just listens and asks questions about my medical work. I steer the conversation away from our families, who matter less and less to us as we age; we care less and less about their approval and anyway I want to discuss freedom, not disappointments. Not demands from the external world. That was yesterday, not today, I say. There are reasons for my distance from my sisters.

I am calm and almost indifferent, I know this woman. She is leaving the country, and I weigh my attachment to her. Decide I can play with my unfeelingness, let her kiss me as she wants to. She spends one night, then the next. She tells me that she thought about me when she was alone. That she had liked it.

After we make love five years into our breakup, she asks if I still love her. Yes, I say, but am I in love?

The first night in three nights I sleep alone, I place a cushion the size of a small coffee table under my legs, lying face up. My posture better without company, at least tonight. The dollar is about to collapse, she says, that’s why she’s leaving. I wonder at the nature of our love, the fatedness of it. How we even look similar, her Mayan blood and my Bengali, her African and my Afghan bones.

The two sides of me struggle together, intent upon their conversation. The meeting necessary because I feel my soul following her abroad, recalling the need I heaved upon her when she was my closest lover. She was 28 and I only 24 then, fighting to survive among the other female college students who were as ambitious as they were penniless. She and I had become fast lovers then, immersing ourselves in the creative, destructive ecstasy of young women in love.

In the same instant, I consider the long roots feeding me here, reaching, uncompromising, into the earth of this place that becomes more and more strange to me after the ten years I spend here. Are they deep enough to feed me after the dollar collapses? I remember my desire to leave for Brazil. The plans I made until…I am too grounded here. A little immobile. And now this.

© 2012 Tahminah Zaman

If you could choose to be in your father’s arms, held as a small child would be, or in a lover’s embrace, which would you choose?

Thirty years of being disappointed by men taught me that I still suffered for want of a father’s love. And so I chose him from the ones I knew, he had been a father four times. I had decided I didn’t want a sexual relationship, that would not be fatherly, I thought. I want a father’s love.

He had heard of my clinic and called to discuss his problem. I was interested only in his medical condition, lower back pain, and the lifestyle of social work and fatherhood that had caused it. But my voice, he said, my laugh had interrupted the solitary rhythm of his single man’s life. He liked that, he said. His curiosity about my personal life troubled me at first, for what did it have to do with my expertise as a doctor?

It had been a few weeks after his first call when he asked me to leave my California home to see him, to bring my mobile energy clinic to his home in Michigan. I agreed to make my first long-distance house call. I was to stay for two weeks of the summer, when my teaching work was over for the year.

I teach him meditation in the mornings, and check his chakras throughout the day, uncluttering and deprogramming them when necessary. I learn that mostly he had loved too much, had agreed to put his sons and caseload before his own health since the age of twenty-five. Had mothered as well as fathered thousands of children for nineteen consecutive years. His kidneys had carried too much and were now too heavy to bear. He had not worked for three years because of the discomfort in his lower back, treated with ultrasound waves and other modalities that only covered up the symptoms of the injury. I am to repair this damage inflicted upon his bones and organs in the fourteen days I spend here.

When we are not shopping for medicinal foods and cooking, when we we are not meditating or talking over tea and chocolate, when we are not walking alongside the small river that winds through his backyard, he fathers me. Cradles me like a child, his arms dark and muscular. I am muscular, too, but his athletic build is almost frightening, the strength of a bare-handed murderer feminizing my frame by contrast. His gentle, irrepressible masculinity, the flexibility of his temperament, a man’s protection of a woman. Gifts my father never gave me. I had told him I liked younger men, men who had not yet expended all their energies on failed marriages, childrearing, and other traumas. But I wanted the love of a father and I would accept it of him, if he had it to give, I said.

In the evenings after dinner, once the dishes are washed and the kitchen swept of crumbs, he approaches me in silence. Gathers me up and takes me to his bed, cradling me against the mound of pillows at one end. I lean against his chest and talk, otherwise motionless, listening to his responses, his low laughter.

On the fifth day of my visit to his home on the East Coast, after a few minutes on the bed I embrace him back, the scent of his male skin making me forget my resolve to love him as a daughter. And isn’t a daughter’s love for her father sexual, too? Tangled by my own heartstrings to the generosity of his affections, months of telephone calls full of undelivered caresses. To be claimed. Now.

I embrace him back, kiss his throat, my hands rubbing his chest and shoulders and stomach, the terrifying muscles pulsating with his breathing. Feel the deadliness of his abdomen — this man who could overtake me effortlessly handles me almost too gently. He presses his hands to my body, too, first tenderly sliding against my clothing and skin, then squeezing, massaging deep into me. Possessing. I can smell his desire because it is my desire, too — penetrates me even before I reach down to feel his readiness.

It is as if I am awakening from a long dream, one whose shards of nightmare have exhausted me during sleep. I curl the length of my body against him, exhaling against his cheek. Translating my signals, he makes a quick movement to place me on top of him, his gaze locking mine in place. Feeling his hardness beneath me, my lips release a sound like I am trapped. He rolls me beneath him, crushing my body against the firm bed, and I am somewhere between my body and my mind, sensation and analysis, someplace between my desire to be daughter and my need to be woman.

© 2012 Tahminah Zaman

There was no hesitation in her speech; she was confident and funny and childlike in the way she entertained herself with jokes. The second time he visited her, he asked, “Did you miss me?” It had been two days. “Yes,” she said, “did you miss me?” “Maybe…” he teased. She had put her hand on his knee then, they were sitting next to each other at her kitchen table, she touched him to show herself to him. And he took his hands in hers, had looked as if across a thousand miles into her nut-brown eyes. He told her how lovely her babies would be should she have any, he squeezed her strong body, admiring it, feeling its buoyancy and resilience.

He pointed out numerous details about her body and words, he asked her a second time questions whose answers he had forgotten since their first meeting. He spoke plainly about his younger age, five years apart from her. He could not be a boyfriend, he said. He told her before he had a chance to touch her, before he could fully ingest her. He made sure to mention it early. He leaned on her listening, shy to say that sex would not keep him near often. He could not be boyfriend.

He was a foot taller, a lanky skateboarder. The density of her muscular, feminine body was concentrated into only five feet and one inch of height. They discussed their varying styles of writing poetry and genres of dance they had studied. His dry sweetness was intoxicating, he could see that from her reactions, the hands caressing him, body pressing to his. For even as she remained cool, her temperature rose when he pulled her into his lap, his rough and calloused sailor’s hands covered in the raw coconut oil she had massaged into the fingers and palms, the cuticles and nails. Romance had come like a tsunami, there was no need to make love though desire was there. The mirroring had happened, and there was no pretending it hadn’t.

His straightforwardness had been oxygen to her after so many men who could not speak for themselves, had let affections and communications crumble just after the most passionate and promising beginnings.

He stopped calling, he was unprepared for all he had learned of Laksmi so quickly. He slowed his text messages because her words were too potent. She was commanding, her lust-inspiring figure, her ringlets of scarlet-black hair, her dancer’s posture, her swordlike intellect. How she ridiculed everything into the present moment, effortless, making herself laugh at all she said. She tried not to laugh at all her own jokes, she said, that would be bad onstage. She was always thinking about performance, talking about yoga. He wondered how flexible her legs were, how he could pry them apart into a lateral split. Yoga in bed, he could see her doing that. How would she be, naked and wet and held down by him, would she push back against his pressure and insist on her own pace, her style? Or submit? He imagined her under him, her hard brown legs pulling him into her, her long, square nails scraping him as she moved her hands from his neck to his legs, spelling her names on his skin.

When her texts came, he was usually at work or with friends, it had been a week since he’d seen her. It was clear she wanted more of him. He didn’t respond to her text, not with words. What stopped him was that she wanted him in return. Did she want too much?

He went to bed alone on his sailboat, reading her unanswered text messages and thinking of her pianist’s fingers with their long, square nails pushing the buttons on her phone. She wanted his response, wanted to hear his echo meet hers across the water of the bay between them, but she would receive none. Except the reverberations of his desire, silent in his own bed. He said her name a few times, he didn’t know her last name. Clutched at his own flesh in her absence, expressed only to himself what she would have liked to witness.

© 2012 Tahminah Zaman

eggs with green garlic and the house
heavy with paintings and cloth,
blue walls to bring water
into the place by her pillow.

I tell her everything. well,
almost. every room a reality
cloaked in color and
reminders, 35 years of life
here.

we talk of fascism over fried
apples and salmon, goat cheese
scramble. the state’s insanity
and blood oranges. mosaic of an artist’s
walls, Baldwin’s face and pain
ted fish, a granddaughter’s name,
an entire closet for white clothes.

© 2012 Tahminah Zaman

Reblogged from eastbaypoetics.com:

"my heart is an unset jewel" came up in a conversation today. Tahminah version 2008!

all that allows her to breathe
is hers again,

repairing from within
she walks around the sun

and one
of these returns –
all the hidden appeared
the sky cleared of stolen
clouds, matter re
verted to its first chem
ical form

she slumbers once more

plates shake and argue,
oceans turn over with her
dream states
symmetry slides
into chaos

© 2012 Tahminah Zaman

nerve ends shred when
Mercury does this

when it works, the body
is a del
icate machine
each of its parts
movable, the fragile
mechanics operate
invisibly, robotic
unpredictable energies
heating water to
the temperature of
your name

and when he returns, I
will have much to say
all the knots to un
ravel pages of thought
repressed now by silence
and gesture, a shut
down of sound

© 2012 Tahminah Zaman

Dream film, you were like a sheath of magic in which everything was wrapped and accounted for. That’s a hanging preposition, I know, but when verbs depend so much upon prepositions how can they be responsible for their own hanging? In any case, the magic has dissipated and we are just here now, beings at multiple stages in the running away process. Turning our gaze from our wounds into whatever it is that medicates us. Even if for just a few hours. Less.

Stripped of the shine that wasn’t mine, I suppose. Lackluster except where my solitude blossomed into necessary annihilations. Death and fear, fear and death. Those shadows faded today. I’m stronger now, your intimidation strategies failed. You, without your control machines, would be a you that I don’t know. Don’t want to know, like the you I’ve seen.

In a haze of knowingness I take in the involuntary nature of your evil, your weakness toward dominance. I see the sorcerers collecting the energies to be focused like lasers upon the evolution of our movement as spirits, restoring wholeness to the masses. And then there are the ones like you, the sleeping and reckless wizards, who move vibrations to embody your own fear, your own inadequacies, punishing the witch doctors even as they extend their healing to your misshapen hearts.

© 2012 Tahminah Zaman

Portals close as you neglect desire. Whether from the weakness of hesitation or fear, fire dies if it goes unfed. Don’t ignore open doors, some never return from that memory: waiting. I see your uncertainty, your self-doubt, and it is too real.

The waiting is beautiful, those words were said by someone whose love was brief and full of absence. Like the love of so many men. My father. And the others I’ve forgotten.

What will the moon’s face say tonight? Will she tell the story of the sun, who was silent in response to her signals? The magnanimous sun! Even he can’t bear the concentration of matter and energy that her beauty is, has to stay so far away in order to admire her.

© Tahminah Zaman