Nahla by Hamza Reed
I look for you in the expressions of silly little girls
or deep in the windings of their tangled hair-
black, of course.
And when Spring arrives,
yellow buses become fat with the howls of children.
Some of them bounce off at stops,
and I wait for one to be you
as if my wishes could be fashioned into stones
and skipped heedlessly across the grasp of God.
Every unbounded shoulder of Sun
will no doubt bring
ample interim.
Last night,
the moonlight swept across your mother's face as I watched her sleep.
I think I met you there by the curve of her lips.
Hello.















