I am the phantom in the tree outside.
Standing in front of an old house where
an unremarkable schoolboy first took off
my bra and ran his hand over the band
of my underwear. He never found
the oldies station on the radio. I stuck
gum under his bed. Hot grass curled
in his cleats. Cold lemonade. The Venus
Flytrap traded from a butcher’s
yard sale on the window. Nothing spelled out
from the seeds of inedible fruit smashed
on the sidewalk. He moved away
and has children now. I returned
to our hometown. I never wanted to.
Recently, a stranger confessed his GPS
speaks more kindly to him than his wife.
He then kissed me. I didn’t return
a secret. I’ll never see him again. Yesterday,
at the sushi bar, my dress was unzipped, the skin
of my back slick and pink from falling
asleep outside. A handsome man helped
cinch the silk together. I have no trouble eating
anything raw. The horseradish and imitation
fish went on pretending. Later, I took him
to my dirty, aging apartment. I live
alone— letting out each dove
from a ruined cathedral. I want you
to think I’m beautiful, I said, my eyes
half-closed. Out by the meridian
of the street, an old woman appears,
can I help you? There is no refuge
in telling someone about a life
they didn’t live. I was only given
my one dark body. I get back
in my car. There are other places
in different cities. There are different
freckles in the afterlife.
Standing in front of an old house where
an unremarkable schoolboy first took off
my bra and ran his hand over the band
of my underwear. He never found
the oldies station on the radio. I stuck
gum under his bed. Hot grass curled
in his cleats. Cold lemonade. The Venus
Flytrap traded from a butcher’s
yard sale on the window. Nothing spelled out
from the seeds of inedible fruit smashed
on the sidewalk. He moved away
and has children now. I returned
to our hometown. I never wanted to.
Recently, a stranger confessed his GPS
speaks more kindly to him than his wife.
He then kissed me. I didn’t return
a secret. I’ll never see him again. Yesterday,
at the sushi bar, my dress was unzipped, the skin
of my back slick and pink from falling
asleep outside. A handsome man helped
cinch the silk together. I have no trouble eating
anything raw. The horseradish and imitation
fish went on pretending. Later, I took him
to my dirty, aging apartment. I live
alone— letting out each dove
from a ruined cathedral. I want you
to think I’m beautiful, I said, my eyes
half-closed. Out by the meridian
of the street, an old woman appears,
can I help you? There is no refuge
in telling someone about a life
they didn’t live. I was only given
my one dark body. I get back
in my car. There are other places
in different cities. There are different
freckles in the afterlife.
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Jai Hamid Bashir is a Pakistani-American artist. She has been published in American Poetry Review, POETRY Magazine, Arkansas International, Guernica Magazine, Denver Quarterly, Radar, Crazyhorse, Asian American Writers Workshop, and others. Her work has been featured in The Best of the Net Anthology in 2022 and has received multiple nominations for the Pushcart Prize. As an undergraduate, she also received an Academy of American Poets Prize. Jai is a graduate of Columbia University and resides in Salt Lake City, Utah.
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