by Amrita Noor Jen Theodore silence, and incense shoots an arrow straight through. angel & i sit in the sweet -grass, searching for signs of life: birdsong, maybe. a swollen teat for suckling. here, palms suckle on the sun while we sleep; organs burst from bodies lest the knife escape questioning. of knives, Shahid writes, on knives. his Urdu balmed then bloodied. at its end, a gazelle cried to the Lord above &| for its piety was granted the curse of poetry. the official acco