come september

In and out of sleep
and consciousness-
it's hot where I am.

I made some change today,
with coins from my wallet
maybe with more
than that. But I can't be sure.

Black and white films
define us
and summer comes into
full bloom. I can smell
autumn.

My teacher once said no one
ever falls in love in the fall.
But I'm already in love, a
secret love
September Ramadan

Forgiveness

Here it is, the nasheed
I listened to all last Ramadan
as the sky darkened, breathed its last-
for those who take heed.

It was close to maghrib, making my way to
class with dates and water.

What I would
give to know it-
to know they were all washed away,
my sins.

when the sky is cleft asunder

Home videos run
and loop around themselves
like the Qur'an that plays
in the kitchen while she cooks with
olive oil and
El-Menshawe's voice.

My children have faces,
my children are unique
she tells herself as each verse
ends and begins.

The pots she inherited from her mother
when she married,
and the flat stove smokes.
Silence in kneading,
spotting her dough with red streaks
as her knuckles bleed.

My children were the future.

Black Shoes

The pair of shoes
I bought last year
for when that time came
are still sitting-
standing in the closet
under a thin layer of dust.

Purposes are
profound, and not
so profound.

Tonight, I see

Yesterday was the day. I walked past it, that barrier that I've faced for the past 4 years. It wasn't as I remembered it, nothing so spectacular, nothing worthy of an epiphany. Just some blue corrogated walls. With a bench that's too small - I can't sit comfortably.

There's graffiti on the edges of my soul, the walls. With names of people I didn't know. Names of people who don't know what went on here under this tin roof, facing the lake. The moon looked at me strangely, like it knew what I was thinking tonight. The question, why the moon looks a bit different every night. Not because of itself, but because of the sun.

There are reeds here, lining the lake. And some plants that prick me as I brush my fingers over them, I don't know what they are called. I didn't notice them four years ago when we were here alone. When the music played through the day, and even the night. When we pretended to make the music ourselves. When we lied to ourselves. When I lied to you.

It's different in the moonlight, calm as though it never happened. It's just a few hours before the sun rises.

I am not angry

he says it's too early for that,
he denotes imperfection, fallibility.
Maybe a word not suited to a poem
but I'll write it anyways

My poetry is prose

Maybe the words are too simple,
like everyday wear for you
not classy, not intricate
but your arrogance
fuels my desire to write this.

You can't tell me that opression needs long
words. It only needs one.
Lies are they that need reservoirs of words
twist them and turn them and bake
at 475 degrees.

I don't know what I'm doing
says he.

And I'm set on away while
two friends converse alone.
My fault, my hurt, my eyes
are stokes. He
tells me he needs help
but I need it more,
and he loves on
in his ignorance of me.

Why does love beat everyone down.
Today I tried to spot them in the clouds

maybe it'll happen one day
and when I am asked what I see, what shapes.
I'll say: I see light.