The body that demaractates me Is the first barrier That I pondered passing I was four years old when I first misplaced my tongue When I Slurped it down Spurring my eyes shut Puncturing an entrance To a rear rescue room I ran to grasp my body I gasped to own it Like one owns
Author: Christin Alhalabi
Why Did You Twist Me Up?
Was the Moon A witness Or an accomplice? I can’t tell But, Both times It was there Sleepless Swollen eye An overripe orange That I mistook For the sun Why did you twist me up? I ask the staring eye Who, Clutching every reply Doubts to confide Even a hiccup Hollow Pulp-less fruit With
Bittersweet Candy
Some of my first memories of giving, or rather receiving, are of my grandfather giving me candy. My grandfather always pulls treasures out of his droopy pants, wide and concealing like a magician’s cloth. Under this cloth hides his shockingly thin body, as well as the timeline of the rather ritualistic candy distribution, always managing to