Poem For a Stranger in a Time of War
By Tishani Doshi, Vacant Dragon à la Subverted Lips
Published 29 February 2024
We left the city and found at the gates
a prescription with your name on it.
We took the metro to the beach
and on the shore, we saw
a row of your teeth.
Dear stranger, it was so nice
before the war. We read letters
at the breakfast table while one of us
stood with a bayonet at the door.
Now we are forced into uniforms
to die on beds of arrows. The cafés
are deserted but from the trenches
we can still hear David Bowie sing
Never let me down, and it’s 1987.
I’m curious, did you ever have a moustache?
Did you stop believing love would arrive
like a grand railway collision? Dear stranger,
we may be fighting cousins, but try
to remember a time of happiness.
In a garden, say, with the sweetness
of pomegranate bursting in your throat.
All your dogs on the grass—even the lost
ones—panting with the hard breath
of a morning walk. Or a late February evening
with your father, banging kitchen vessels
down the street, to chase out winter
and welcome spring, sounding the air
with tiny detonations. You were a child.
How the world filled you then. How it fills
you now, whispering from behind the line
of silver birches, Just get out, just go.
I have robbed these memories and I give
them to you, dear stranger. Take them.
They may save your life.
Footnote: this poem was created using the Emptiness constraint as the starting point.