It’s been many years since I sat in your classroom,
That final spring before leaving,
Before coming back.
Before leaving,
Coming back,
And leaving…maybe for good.
I’ve read from your books
Aloud to others
While time
Breaks the binding of your spines
Your pages yellowed.
I own three of your books,
All read from,
None finished,
Half lazy, occupied, busy with life’s many doings…
Half never wanting to be done with you.
My greatest writing so far was given to the world
On the day you left it.
I haven’t heard your voice in ages
Haven’t eaten eggs and sausage patties on plastic plates
Across from you
I want to call Mulligan and re-do
So that you may hear me
And know I heard you
I bought up every title of yours I could find today
Scouring for every possibility
Pulling one volume all the way from India.
Why aren’t your words nearer?
Your origin there
Though your life, almost all, here.
Why weren’t your words nearer?
You, self-described as defunct Muslim
Welcomed poet as a more comfortable title
Before I knew I was also defunct in what was first laid upon me.
Your cut.
My cut.
Our cloth matches close.
So, in all that replaces prayer
I turn to your pages to mourn you
With a poet’s mourning
Pouring lovingly over your verse (Neither of us will ride a hearse)
And Poet Running stands out
You the poet, hurried.
Teacher guides, “You must exercise more control over words”
You listen.
You the teacher guides, “You must exercise more control over words.”
I listen.
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Saleem was my poetry professsor in college. I was fortunate to be invited to a Zoom memorial for Saleem hosted by MATWAALA and his family. It was clear that over his many years as a poet and teacher that he had profoundly touched many developing poets. He was notably instrumental in the cultivation and preservation of poets and their works in and from India who wrote in English. For more information on Saleem and his own works visit his website.