By Moniza Alvi

I observed that her knuckles were raw
with the effort of knocking on doors.

And if they opened she’d have difficulty
passing through – the awkwardness

of easing in with her world intact.
More than once I implored her to give up.

But I admired my wife, in a way –
the single-mindedness, her fierce pursuit.

She worked attentively, whenever she could,
at her listening skills, honing them

by day and night
on the creaking of a far-off door.

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