This poem was an eight-minute gift that bobbed up from the ocean of poetry, making the whole day a yes.

the other Zaynab

by Tamam Kahn

I called for her, not expecting an answer
but because her impression–
like a fingerprint on glass­–
was missing from these tales,
her finger sugared with the juice of
a fresh apricot, the one that pressed
for a second or two on that glass mentioned above,
that is, if there was glass at all,
or a rough cup or a heavy Phoenician goblet
or a pane from Yemen, fitted
into the earthen wall
of some Meccan mansion, tinted
maybe a pale rose color,
like the blush on an apricot,
or the heat in her cheek the first time
Muhammad took her hand.

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