Itinerary of Departures – Saba Zahoor

April 29, 2026

Closing my eyes doesn’t help.
The bed is cold
from last night’s silence. Here,

there is nowhere to rest, only
an inexhaustible itinerary of departures,
fleeing into the forest’s belly, deer

held in the pause before flight.
You want us woolgathering
under the cool of mogshade.We bleat

in Bach’s Erbarme dich.
And who is free
of the carking cares of life?

Who can break down
without disassembling?
Not I.

I am a mother. I wake
and conjure breakfasts from videos,
pull endless ribbons

of to-do lists from my top hat.
The illusion of order
holds till eventide,

when rabbits return,
crowding the kitchen floor.
There is no room for sorrow.

All the windows are open.
The day comes in.
It stays.