by Saba Husain
Before dawn, before dawn, the minarets,
footsteps crossing the blue-tiled floor,
vortex of stars spilling from a circle,
waves lapping at my bedroom door.
One crow, then more, in the pebbled courtyard.
New voices join in, here’s to dawn, to dawn;
the frangipani incensed with night
presses against the curtained window.
Ripples in the basin near the stone wall,
rose petals from evening whirling down,
it’s dawn, it’s dawn, and a pale lawn appears
with the cry from the last minaret.
Saba Husain is a finalist for the 2014 New Letters Poetry Prize, and has work forthcoming in Barrow Street. She was a Juried Poet at the 2014 Houston Poetry Fest, and the winner of The Lorene Pouncey Memorial Award. Saba was also an assistant poetry editor for Glass Mountain. She grew up in Karachi, but has lived in Houston for over twenty years.