Ode To H

Malak Askar, Egypt

My father is a pious man. 

I know this in actions, not words:

My father's voice is a refrain reverberating

against the walls, deep into the night, 

refusing to be spared like a knight of faith:

eyes and hands lifted upwards, 

waiting on a response. 

Both butcher and butchered,

or father and son.

His rosary, held taut,

and his solitude, tangible. 

Abraham retells the story, 

seated at the head of a table.

A hand reaches for his glory, 

glittering like a crystal ball, 

a face reflected in yet-to-be haunted eyes. 

Like bullet points, he muses

about parties and music, 

clubs and yachts, 

or drinks that burn going down. 

The excitement of youth, 

overtaken by the mistakes of joy. 

My father is a pious man

but he once was not.

I know this in words, not actions:

Here is a gangly limbed youth, 

Call him H. 

H grabs his father's whiskey 

on his way out from a glass cabinet, 

and never leaves through the front door. 

Legacy tastes bitter on H's tongue, 

chalky like gunpowder, 

followed by a ringing in his ears. 

"This is what a real man is," 

he's told. 

Soldiers in uniforms, 

crisp, clean, and straight-backed,

or crying out for their mothers.

Red on their hands,

like a disease infecting them and their brothers.

H is not so naive, 

as to think fate is merciful. 

But H is only 19,

though he swears he's met his dream girl; 

H is only 19, 

though he knows what his brother's thinking 

when he holds a knife for too long, 

always bracing for impact. 

H is only 19, 

but he's always been one to capture beauty, 

not kill it.

At 22, 

H sits at his brother's bedside, 

listens to the steady beat of his heart 

through a monitor.

H knows now, 

that joy and sorrow are lovers, 

that you can't look at one without seeing the other. 

H stands in all black

and realises the word of God is funeral.

watches his father refuse to look him in the eyes, 

and wants to be the butcher, for once. 

H sees her walking towards him,

his dream girl, still, dressed in white. 

the joy following his sorrow, 

never looking back like Orpheus would. 

They consolidate, tell him,

"The good die young."

yet he tries to stop being bad. 

Only 27, 

but he's going to be a father. 

And for the first time,

H will lift his eyes and hands,

wait on a response 

and beg:

"Please, God, 

do not let me become my father."

Let me try again, a final time. 

Across from Abraham sits Ishmael, 

next to him Isaac, 

somehow, both the butchered.

Father, 

We've been trying to tell you: 

press down on the knife, 

let your faith be paradoxical.

Father, 

I've been trying to tell you: 

lift your eyes and hands upwards,

and wait on a response— 

remember, 

the word of God is heard by the living, too.

Father, you are a pious man

and I know this in soul, not body. 

Malak Askar, or as she goes by in literary circles, Askar Wilde, is an 18 year-old poet and playwright from Cairo, Egypt. With her writing, she tries to find the blurry line between past and present, often using history and religious texts as references. She has written multiple plays with her school's theatre program, and hopes to further her study of English literature at university.