By Samina Hadi-Tabassum

In the middle of the night

I walk out into the back alley

The sound of coal cars ahead

The full moon right above

There is no one on the streets

Just the coyotes and me

I cross under the viaduct

Then take a sharp left

Down to your street

On the only driveway

I see the parked car

And know she is there

I see myself climb the steps

Open the foyer door quietly

She is back in the kitchen

Washing the dirty dishes

I see her silhouette

And it matches mine

The same dark black hair

The same dark brown skin

Both Bedouin women

Slowly up the stairs I go

Into your open bedroom

Where you are asleep

Where I become Hagar

Bearing you a bastard child

While Sarah keeps home below

About the Author
Samina Hadi-Tabassum is an associate clinical professor at the Erikson Institute in Chicago. Her first book of poems, Muslim Melancholia (2017), was published by Red Mountain Press. She has published poems in East Lit Journal, Soul-Lit, Journal of Postcolonial Literature, Papercuts, The Waggle, Indian Review, Classical Poets, Mosaic, Main Street Rag and These Fragile Lilacs. Her poems were performed on stage as a part of the Kundiman Foundation and Emotive Fruition event focusing on Asian American poetry.

For more information: Samina Hadi-Tabassum