“The Woman at Lahore G. P. O.”

 “The Woman at Lahore G. P. O.”

Alamgir Hashmi

His long scrawl in black—
­now he circles, now he draws
a craooked line, a horseshoe
language that he writes.
God, is there no way
to talk straight to people?
I am the third. Two others
will have to be written for
first; the one at front is
already pouring forth,
and he writes her letter
ready for post before she
has finished. They rage in their
passion, they whisper
and wail in loss. He calmly
sharpens his pencil meantime.
I wonder if that is all
they learn at school.
My husband is away and I
am lonely, but other women have
just said it—and every time he
has nodded his head.
He’s all eyes and no heart.
What will he put in that letter?
I cannot say it;
he does not understand.
I’d rather go home
and cook the carrots for dinner.