This piece is part of the Mehfil folio, which features original art by Jasjyot Singh Hans.

I am looking for 
the words to describe what 
cannot be said: breaks 
in a sentence. Fill 
my mouth with rosewater, 
or just let me break. 

What I have now: tears, 
cries, screams, and laughter. 
What I am reaching for— 
I cannot name, can’t 
even conceive. Somewhere, 
a boy is served break- 

fast cold. Dates and dried 
mango, oats soaked in 
honey, bread and water. 
Azaan, Fajr. Even 
this is not language— 
only sound. It breaks 

the rosy clouds of dawn. 
Everywhere in prison 
yards stones are turned 
upwards daily. Roaches 
are counted gracefully 
with care. Jailbreak 

is a heaven 
unbegged for. I cannot 
imagine a place I 
have not once seen. 
I have no words to transport 
you. Sit, take a break. 

Look into the mouth 
of your beloved; trace 
the shape of the tongue.
Can you tell what 
he is saying? Gap between 
teeth, how his voice breaks. 

And what are we left 
with without language? 
I have taught you nothing 
new. There is no grace 
here. Red dye plumes 
into the koi pond, breaks 

the facade of beauty; 
fish bellies full 
of breadcrumb and algae. 
In my dream, a lucky 
fisherman’s spear brings 
home a meal. They break 

their fasts with seabird, 
and within that seabird 
a fish, and within 
that fish mud and seagrass. 
And tonight, they eat 
three meals. My heart breaks 

when I wake. When 
I realize all my ponds 
are bloody and worthless. 
That I have forgotten 
everything: the fence, 
the food, the fish. Breaks 

in the counts, the song 
and verse, the rules 
that govern sacred texts, 
the prisoners and their 
dreams, I forgot even 
the rhyme to break.