When the Voice Slips Beneath the Tongue”

By Ramsha Naushad

I do not speak

not because I have no words,

but because they bloom too early,

and wilt in the shadow of your gaze.

I have swallowed syllables

like seeds

each one holding

a possible tree,

a shade I could rest beneath.

But I live among thunder,

where every utterance

feels like an affront,

a warning bell,

a crime.

So I carry silence

like a cloak,

learning the language of eyebrows,

of long sighs,

of turning doorknobs slowly

so no one feels disturbed.

My voice is not lost

it is waiting,

wrapped in cotton inside my ribs,

choosing the moment

when the world feels less like a blade

and more like a bowl.

When I do speak,

may it not be

for permission,

or proof,

or pardon

But for prayer.

For poetry.

For the sacred act

of hearing myself

still rise

and

still belong.

By Ramsha Naushad