The Amman I know
the Amman I know, wakes up early in the summer stretching out her feet as the adhan sounds. streets remain silent bas the scraping of sweepers and the corner bakery rolling up its shutters. slowly, the city awakens with the honks of taxis and squeaky carts of ka’ak bread, she stirs as the national
As you lay dying, in a language I barely knew
As you lay dying, you coughed up worm-strings of words in a language I barely knew. Smooth platefuls of sound, slipping like the silver-butter of moonlight on a pond. Ephemeral. If I cannot conjugate (I cannot) – I die, you die, she would die, too, – how can I feel the rough edges of [&he
Weaverbirds
We used to climb the thorn trees when we were boys And annoy the weavers building their summer nests. I always kept my shoes on. You were older, Your footholds surer, scrambling up on palms and soles Dusted gold with pollen. You found where the birds Were at work. They were spinning dry grass into [
embroidery
sitting cross-legged on the veranda couch, I try to mirror the patience of your voice when threading the needle for the fifth time, wanting to sew your speech into linen and have it rest in my dress pocket. naively, I swaddle myself in the temporary, slipped like a bookmark betwee
boju says
he is now the 2am ambak falling on our tin roof & maybe but i don’t have words for this widow singing for the ghost of her husband still limping around his home of pepper trees […]
Spaces
At Scouts, we would bash the trees and see what little creatures fell out: watch them scramble in plastic ice cream tubs, taking up space only how they are told. Villages are puddles: at my feet I see myself in blue gingham, Nutella smeared at the corners of my mouth, but before I can meet [&helli
seven and serpentine
i’d recline on the green couch, on peeling patches of fabric held by white string. […]