I AM – a poem

I am my umbilical cord My mother’s sleepless nights My father’s long drives I am the scent in my mother’s wardrobe The high heels I never fit I am the ingrained institutionalized religion Founded on fear. I am the shame and the guilt The vagina I am the black eyeliner I draw around my eyes

The Young

Make way for the young! I’d hate to be the one to break it to you (or no, not really, I don’t care), but you’re dying soon. Stop being so selfish, will you? Are 70 years of living, dominion and destroying not enough? Make some space or at least allow us to claim some. Lift

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Privileged Exile

You read the words of Mahmoud Darwish, his nostalgia, revolution and melancholia swirl the desert dust over times and places to reach your eye. Yes, I swear. This is how the tear settled on my dry cheek. And Nizar Qabbani whose eroticism, love and poetic (but also political) fight for social justice make you tingle

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(Un-Anticipated)

How can a gesture erase                                                            a thousand others are less than the one                         person insufficient                                          one                                                                flawless. The hand’s caress                                                            caressing un-draws figures in the sand                              the cathedrals,                                                            erected to capture children playing distant sounds                                    the awe for God, now                                                    are now gossamer structures                                                            floating on the frothy water The hand holds grains                        towards the indeterminate

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(The New Arrangement) – Dedicated to D. B.

Like a comb                                                   found when unsearched for missing some teeth… Like forced smiles                      in a nursing home Like a hurt animal                      trying to save some last moments                                                   demarcated by some random feet of space                                                   in

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14.05.2014

With you I share this little piece of self, for the temporality of days in which our presence lacks and lingers, slithers and soothes, smiles in remembrance—a game:   I said, ‘One plus one is two.’   You said, ‘I promise you.’   And this self I share with you, I share with none other.

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