nejma

by Nayyirah Waheed

i have not written in months. my fingers are molt. you are with a writer who is not writing. last night you said ‘love, let me read to you’ i was laying on my stomach as you began translating the book of the fixed stars. by abd al-rahman al-sufi. the persian. sufi. astronomer. you said ‘he handwrote this around 964. a book of the sky. with his hands.’ we arrive at the page where al-sufi speaks of a little cloud laying at the mouth of a big fish. (‘this was later named the andromeda galaxy’ you say) and as you read i am transforming into that thing. i can feel it. i am writing. my stomach is writing. my back is writing. the water behind my right eye is writing. i gather your hands to my lips. i am grateful for you. for the kind of love that will read me the (loosely translated) starworks of incredible sufi astronomers on warm tuesday evenings. (the kind of love that loves a writer when they cannot write.) i am writing my way back to you. you were born august 39th. i was born on the 54th of april. we are something. born. in and out of time. i believe that everyone in the world. has one poem. that is their soulmate. i was made from sex. there is no shame. in such a creation.