smoke

The words of wise men amount to little more than the burnt ash of parchment used to fuel an ignorant fire. His heavy breathing is the menacing sound of pain being welcomed into his lungs.

a thread of truth

My hand is touching
a thread of truth, thin, invisible.

I put a book under my pillow
and fell asleep, hoping
for some truth to grow in my mind.
But I woke up to a sore head
and a book with distorted pages.

She’s getting married
to a boy she’s known for many years.
How love can bloom and wither
within the span of a few months,
the fleeting thread of it-
a spider’s web, thrust aside by
unseeing hands.

I open the book only
to smudge the words
with my temporary blindess,
I cannot read what it says.

I will myself to wake up.
A thread of truth builds itself
around my wrists.

Snippets

Here are snippets of paper poetry
by my little sister at the end
of a notebook.
I have lost snippets of paper with to-do lists
in the laundry.

The lines are no good and my feet are cold-
work piles up but I sleep through it
managing to write it all with closed eyes
and a wandering mind.

My mind is floating in a cup of tea
while snippets of paper flutter down.
I shut my eyes,
the heaviness is unavoidable.

letter to a friend

my friend is sad today
and asks me to write her poetry
about scars of love
that fade over years, but never disappear
or rain drops that shake the ground

people have left my side
only to return for help when needed.
but I stand still, waiting for their calls
and my scars have faded-
but still they mark me as time marked me.

So I will write this sad poem for you my friend,
in hopes that you will stand still with me
and not hurt because a love has
scarred you.

But smile because it has taught you.

say this with me

Gul ma’ee

Save my prayer,
I can’t leave it behind
it is my life
and my world breathes it.

a market of unwanted souvenirs

Tables of already-chewed gum and plain women (the men of her heart have been married off). Engagement rings are pawned off here for a dime or less, some pennies. And copper rings, and rings with missing diamonds (because diamonds are not forever).

Old revenge in a jar and orange rinds and dented teaspoons (the baby has outgrown them). And footsteps in snow that have long since melted into the ground. And mended socks too grotesque to be worn. A heart too misshapen to be sold as is.

Pencil shavings, shavings of her heart (boxed away and labelled knick knacks). And the bridesmaid’s dresses with no women left to wear them – they’ve all been chewed.

zero

Waiting in my sleep, waiting

for something more than salty-sweet
taste buds to dance together
without a mahram.

Longer than waiting for wisdom teeth
or for paper cut scabs to heal-
it’s more than waiting for henna
to fade from sweaty palms
or red lollipops to shrink in mouths
(for the bubble gum inside).

More than waiting for a plate of rice
and chicken soup to stop twirling in the microwave.
or for snow to build
a defunct snowman without a head.

Waiting, waiting,
Zero is so sad.

campus autumn

1

He doesn’t have a beard
but calls my name on Harbourd
while I listen to a nasheed
and walk to poetry.
Pale yellow leaves crunch
underfoot while my mind flies
with pigeons
into the mouths of Egyptians.
He waves
and his stubble beams at me.

I wandered off the sidewalk into
oncoming traffic with a mind, absent
as usual. For a moment
I thought the trees were on fire.
but they were only red
and little cherry-coloured flowers
grab my fingers and ask me to play
ring-around-the-rosy.

2

The sun is singing nasheeds with me
and twirling around the sky,
playing ring-around-the-rosy with flowers.

And spurts of grass, green and gangly
sip sun-tea while
he calls me to prayer, to success.
The voice of the muathin dances in my throat,
a melody that makes my ears smile.

Eating in Class

I have a sandwich bag
with some chocolates in it.
the chocolates are old, about 6 months
but they’ll do for diversion in tedious class.
Coconut and quotations,
hazelnuts and notes
and olde english
chocolates
crawl down my throat
and set up camp in my belly.

I have a sandwich bag
with cereal bits in it.
Maple flavour
explodes between my jaws,
scatters in my mouth,
saliva hugs the carbohydrates.
Gruesome memories to end
murderous class material.

I have a sanwich bag
with an apple in it.
Not unhealthy?

I’ll save that for later.