Four Poems by Momina Raza

The House That Remembers

In every ruined house, there is a room that remembers–

a door half open for someone who doesn’t return.

The walls feel warm; they carry your pulse. I feel it

too, like a moth kissing a lantern religiously.

Like furniture, absence settles in the house, echoing

with our first conversation– heavy, tarred and bitter.

The staircase moans in your wounded voice:

“Do not walk on me, I am not ready.”

The windows keep asking for you, I mistake the

fog for your breath on glass. The night falls and

drapes my body like a blanket that still smells of

you— a scent held too long, a memory turning

into cold weather. I walk room to room, careful,

as if touching the past might cause another crack.

The silence bends as I pass. I realize the only thing

left to break is me, but this house holds me a little longer.

Atonement

The Earth wailed as I bent my forehead to the ground.

You have become a grave burden to my faith.

When I bowed for mercy, the sky cracked open with disbelief;

it said to me, “do not forsake me with your beloved’s idol.”

I trembled beneath the shards of light, each ray a verdict.

The wind carried the bitter scent of burnt offerings.

The sweet decay of fallen rose petals whispered

the names of those I had forsaken. The mountains leaned

away in sorrow. I reached for the idol; specks and dust

caress my face like my grandmother. It smelt of gulaab

that grew in her garden. The thunder roared and I wept.

I felt the weight of every faith I had ever held.

We Shall Meet Again

We shall meet again, in Lahore,

where teahouse cups grow warmer

and no farewell tastes the same.

When I reach for your arm,

My body will be warm.

You will no longer tremble at intimacy.

I will be able to show you all the poems,

I wrote for you. You will finally understand

my language of silence.

We shall meet again, when the marigolds

bloom. Your voice will know me,

we won’t be late for love.

Softening

I lie here,

asking God to bless me.

He closes His doors

because you were my religion.

I lie here waiting for you,

like Didi and Gogo,

waiting for Godot.

Splish, splash, stomp,

my savior rots.

Hung on a crucifix,

I turn upside down,

my mouth filling with blood.

When you leave me,

I breathe.

Out, brief candle.

The wind stills it.

What is soft in me

loosens first:

the hands,

the ribs.

The blood learns another use.

My spine lowers.

I leave quietly,

through the long grass,

as a deer.

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About the Poet:

Momina Raza is a poet from Lahore, Pakistan, and holds an MPhil in English Literature from Kinnaird College for Women. She was selected as a finalist for the 2025-26 Pakistan Youth Poet Laureate program in English. Momina's writing engages themes of longing, grief, and desire, tracing how interior wounds shape faith, memory, and becoming. Her poems have appeared in The Aleph Review, Borderless, Pandemonium, and other literary journals.