Moniza Alvi

Writing at the Centre

I’d Thought the Words Might Come Streaming Out

but no, just a few, precious few –

like drops from an almost dry sponge, or sparks from a half-extinguished fire.

Words on that perilous journey from heart and brain to pen.

Or impacted in the body.

Words assembling themselves in a small way.

The pain of Broadmoor, a third of my life. Or Dad, why did you kill yourself?