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
My mother never eats toast on a plate, she holds the bread in her long hands and eats over the kitchen sink. I think these are the moments she prefers, looking out to the garden, morning sun dim and blue and made of all the forgiving in the world easier here in morning’s two-part
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
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
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
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
How can one convey a complete upheaval of comfort and routine, a loss of language and comprehension and direction? Is it possible to put into words the magic of discovering a new place for the first time? So have we, the Bard in Berlin cohort, experienced a complete cycle of disorientation and reorientation in moving
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.