Speaking of Which

 

 

I'd often wished that I could begin
what I want to say with a certain "chapter 31"
as a bookend ( the count notwithstanding)
between half the heart bled before
and the other half which wishes to run away.

And my words taken
out of darkness- as the blind read Braille-
with hearts carefully treading over alphabets.
And perhaps you will find your river
flowing in mine.

I wish I could write about all the reasons
for why, why and why, in arabic alphabets,
that read alif, ba, djim...
which, just by the happy coincidence of their name,
will bloom like midnight petals.

But owing to the fallout
with count and a folklore-heart
I would want to turn away
but will neither find my feet nor sand.

I would want you with the heart of Palestinians,
With the hope of grave diggers and nomads
until all is ready to be lost,
to mark the journeys you cannot ,
have not and would not be with me
with foot-markers,
but I fear it must be pawned with a life,
yours does not belong
and mine will not be enough.

As such, with each passing day
I would learn to make remorseful
sounds with careless ease,
because for some of us
these stories will, happily,
neither have a voice nor an ear.

Reviews

[Christie Moses]

I love the fourth stanza. Beautiful brilliant writing that leaves me with a restless ache in my heart. I read it through twice.

[Corset]

You are such an amazing writer, I feel like I've found lost treasure every time I read.
Is love always so impossible in the beginning, middle or even in the end? I feel so sad at the lost potential expressed here, and where are all the lovers of artful wane, they should we reading you!