interview

Her mind paces back and forth
in the tight sterile room. Beads
of sweat line her brow
where her hijab ends and
forhead begins.

Her jugular vein trembles, gasping for air
at the thought of The Interviewer.
The pit of her stomach turns,
sounds of her palpitating heart are heard
for the distance of 70 years.

She is greeted, eyed, and questioned
in her once-immaculate suit, ruffled
and awkwardly creased over the years.
This body language speaks louder
than a tongue ever could.

He looks at her, sees the years
of struggle in her hands, every grimace
at the coming of sad news, the jagged
edges of her life pieced together
on an unkind precipice.
Her desperate prayers to God.

He judges, smiles and takes her hand.
This is Paradise, the end of
her interview with God.

dust

My life in a hairbrush
is summarized by long bristles,
bent and disfigured by years
of brushing.

Strands of thinning hair
drift to the wooden floor–
a gathering place for dusty thoughts
and aging greys.

alphabet soup

There’s a storm brewing
inside our minds, suspicious turns of phrases
writing our patience to its finest edge.

We were fed soup and watery tales,
with spoons in our mouths
so that we could not speak–truth
or otherwise.
But we didn’t learn to
stop the gluttony of words and twisted
thoughts, to take the spoon
away and just breathe for a moment
between swallows.

Here we are, here we remain, in the metallic
boxes of our minds,
shut out from the trust of others
and always writing unfinished letters,
waiting
for a glimpse of sky.

I’ve been waiting for you.
in a few seasons you said you’d return,
live here, live with us again.

in the meantime I’ve been burned
at the stake with the question
I’ve avoided my entire life.

she says I look like you
if she squints.

In December

It didn’t snow.
He waited until we didn’t expect snow
then it did,
and there was light.
not so I could see the palaces of Bostra,
but there was still faint sun

January, there was no transition
only it was full of hope
no, not for snow
for greater things,
for out of season fruit and
to do lists that were to be stuck to

February had memories stuck
in its teeth. and I flossed them away
bundled them, threw them
out of a speeding automobile
and laughed at my
violence

March, oh March and coffee shops
busy libraries, swimming in culture
but sitting still
waiting for something greater
than stale teabags;
maybe honey and milk

Here is April, and suddenly
there is no more sad poetry,
only words scratched onto unpaid phone bills
and inconvenient stains
waiting
for a greater detergent

rosary

there is an old chinese woman
sitting on the bus,
a rosary between her fingers
resting on her worn pant leg,
she mutters unintelligable
words of faith

and my young hands want to take it
from her
out of anger that she is able
to believe in something so strongly.