Friday, January 29, 2010
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Friday, January 22, 2010
then i want you to listen to it, and know it's me. i want you to find me in these words, and then find me in person. and tell me that you understand.
i haven't even met you yet, and i'm already making your playlist.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Monday, January 18, 2010
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Africa, she whispers into his ear as they cross city streets paved with crackling lights and indifference. Africa, she says before she turns off the lights and crawls into bed. Africa, she chokes as she liquor burns down her throat. Africa, she says, and does not kiss him.
Africa, she mumbles, and tosses in her sleep. Africa, she cries into the broken glass in the floor. Africa, she screams as her fingernails slide down her face. Africa. Africa. Africa. Like a heartbeat.
Africa, she says when she sees the dusty book on the shelf.
He tries to ask her once, when they are in bed, cigarette ash and lipstick staining the sheets, smelling like vodka and sin, about Africa. Her eyes flash and he can almost see something, like her soul, resonating through the years. She tells him about red sands and minarets and private beauty and a bride in white not being an irony.
She whispers into his skin about family, and love, and simplicity. She wipes mascara from her cheek and explains to him about love – you love your parents because they created you, your children because they come from you, and your family because they are pieces of you. You love God because He is what makes it all possible.
Africa, she whispers when she begs him to understand. Africa, when he can’t.
He does not ask her again.
“Don’t say that to me anymore,” he tells her once.
“Africa. Don’t say Africa to me anymore.”
And she looks at him like he’s lost his mind.
Africa, she cries when he slaps her in the face. Africa, she whispers to herself every Friday at noon. Africa, she sighs as she presses the needle deeper. Africa, she laughs when the doctor gives her the results.
“And to think we left Africa to get away from AIDS.”
And he realizes this is the first time he’s ever heard her say the word aloud.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
more peace, more love, and five more poems from far away. ❤.
- + -
april 25, 2009. saturday.
i spit metal into a sink today.
i should probably be able to make more of that than i am,
but i can’t.
the dentist was nice, with soft hands
stray hairs grew up his cheekbone, trailing away from his beard.
my aunt told him my life story while he drilled my teeth.
he mmm’d and said he was impressed
it bothers me more than it should when i wonder if he was telling the truth.
april 26, 2009. sunday.
it hurts more than you would think to realize
that something you thought you knew how to do for years
is completely wrong.
bismillahi ar-rahman ar-raheem.
that fact that is it these words i still cannot say
shakes me somewhere that hasn’t been touched in a while.
april 27, 2009. monday.
marriages arranged through phone calls make me nervous
like not enough words spread into too large a space.
he has blue eyes, they tell me
like it should make a difference.
is it wrong that it does?
april 28, 2009. tuesday.
why won’t you let me remember you like this,
like dusty roads and sun too hot
to be allowed?
i don’t want to remember you in high-rise cities
while taxi cabs zoom by
it makes you seem too real.
why won’t you just be my dream?
april 29, 2009. wednesday.
hijab shopping in furnaj –
boys in nike shirts
aacida at night.
does it get better than this?
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Thursday, January 7, 2010
if you have never wanted to fall down
for fear of God,
you do not believe.
i fear and love and
love and fear.
do not ask me why again. i am tired of your questions.
april 21, 2009. tuesday.
i watch moroccan women attempt american dances,
bracing their backs against poles and
running their hands up their thighs.
i’m still not sure why
the only parts of western culture they long for
are the ones that will tear them apart.
april 22, 2009. wednesday.
applying makeup in parking lots
and pulling bangs out from under scarves.
these are the things they think will bring them freedom
but are only imprisoning them further.
i wish i could tell them.
i wish they would understand.
certificate in one hand and a husband in the other,
april 23, 2009. thursday.
i sit in the kitchen
and listen to my aunts
and my aunt’s aunt
talk in words
i half catch
i drink shahi with
my back against cabinets and
listen to the adhan
come in through the windows.
april 24, 2009. friday.
i play chase around tall walls and
listen to a debate about
as half-naked women dance across the stage.
i’m told i’m wrong for watching it, but his eyes are glued to the screen.
still, i’m impressed that he cares.
he’s changed since last year, in more ways than one
makes me a little jealous that i haven’t morphed a lick since i was thirteen.
his cousin tells jokes in a dialect too quick for me to understand
i don’t need to, to know they’re not funny.
his skin is the color of chestnuts, though
and he looks older than he is.
if he wasn’t an asshole, he’d be beautiful.
i talk about barack obama
and twirl a toothpick between my teeth
and do my best not to look back at the grill
but i do a few times, when no one’s watching.
his hands are greasy from working the spick
so we shake wrists when we leave.
who knew a year could make such a difference?