poetry by mishal khan

A Nostalgia for Something That Probably Existed

soggy pancake in the middle of a stack,
syrup caught only on its edges,
there is a home.

a park across—
antsy silhouettes dance
from swing to bench to running their hands through the grass, picking at its blades
looking for,
Purpose?
or something to pass the time on a four o’clock afternoon, before
tuition and the dentist’s teeth office.

a pentagon of emotion (human,
alien, bird, sunflower, toast) nest
on fine threads—boiled, caramelized,
splat—mostly in the living/dining/kitchen room,
temperatures too high and too low to let
anyone else in.