indecision.

the souls of my feet
are the color of the dust
that coats the hot asphalt.

there's a noisy street
both in front and behind
but there's no way to know
which way is correct.

the sun is still blazing,
teasing with its tenacity.

forward looks nice. don't think twice.

newlife.

I'm in your garden, with
dirt under my fingernails
and grass stained knees.

My daisies are blooming,
mingling with your marigolds
the way your soul mingles with mine.

We're at opposite ends
but distance is only temporary
in this little patch of earth.

We'll meet in the middle,
in the company of the vibrant petals,
and leave traces of ourselves

among the flowers.

Easy as One Two Three.

Let's get a kite.
Diamond-shaped,
striped red green and blue,
with a long white string.

It's spring, after all.

We can fly it in the park,
near the carousel
under the budding spring trees,
you and me, little bay bee.

You'll see.
You'll feel so free.

i am no elm

a house you grew up in
does not a home make.

trees have roots, not people.

origin

momma, mother, madre, ama,
you are but theoretical.

no matter where I look,
in my peripheral vision,
your silhouette will linger.
I turn to see you, but
too slow are my reflexes.
you're gone just as instantly
as I felt you there.

the weight of your absence
lays across my shoulders
and before I'm conscious of it,
the curvature in my spine
is like the s you taught me to draw
in my name.

Things are so different now
than they were back then.
Darker hair and tired eyes
paint the picture of today
but your image will never change:
silent, intimidating, constant.

Abstract as you may be
I will never be free of you.
Never.

continuity.

lonely
in a crowded room.

silly
little girls who

feel
solitary-ly surrounded

grow
to be 20-somethings who

feel
just the same.

1

Lady, your blues song
brings me down. Why must you sing
it so near to my ear?

Abuya

Your large hand,
balled up in a tight fist,
speeds toward my chest.
Blink and you'll miss it.

Straight through skin
muscle and soft tissue
to plunder my insides
and find the heart.

Tenderly retreat, prize in hand.
Only for the tenderness to disappear
and your strong fingers to crush
what you've stolen.

Still standing, I can only stare
into eyes that look like mine.
Knees buckle and meet carpet,
as daddy leaves the room, satisfied.

My poor heart.

Sunday Morning

the blinds are rolled down,
and the blanket's in bunches
where our feet intertwine
at the foot of the bed.

your drum of a heartbeat
taps on my shoulder blades
while you rest, pressed behind me
in a bed that's too small.

the silence is broken only
by unsteady breathing
and the sighs of contentment
that abscond from my lips as

the soft pads of your fingers
dance along my waistline
in patterns that
I can't quite follow.

"we should get up,"
you whisper in that
throaty, half-asleep voice
that's saved just for me.

I roll over, and bury my face
in the stubble of your chin,
closing my eyes and
freezing us in the amber of the moment.

Don't ask me why,
just let me lie here
in the quiet.

turkey, mashed potatoes and gravy,
all with a side of discomfort.
holidays, shmolidays.

my dear sparrow,
your nest has fallen

and the horizon
won't help you now.

Specter of You

a slight squint of your eyes,
and just a flick of the wrist,
and we're back to where we started.

they were right when they said
"things never change, little girl",
and I was silly to believe otherwise.

I see your face in my mirror
but something about the image
makes my stomach pirouette.

maybe it's not really you.
maybe it's just my mind's projection
of what you look like in my nightmares.

it seems too vivid to be anything but you,
but I should know better than to think
you'd be anywhere but your own world.

autumnal

the winds turn cold,
the leaves put on their fancy clothes,
and the sun gets lazy.

it dips below the horizon
before the party is over,
and that cold breeze chases us inside.

numb fingertips brush rosy cheeks
and walk away.

glassy

your lack of words and doleful stare
tug at my heartstrings.
you won't speak a word
but the manifestation
of your passions
in your eyes
is too much for me to handle.
maybe we've just had too much wine.

pithy

shallow soul.

you've lost control.

the walls are closing in
and your face goes out of focus.
you take a step forward
and glance back over your shoulder.
i wish you would let go
of my hand.

thunderheart.

the bolt of lightning that cracks the sky
lights everything up for a split second.
the puddles jump with the boom of heavy thunder
as the kids count mississippis on their fingers.

this weather tells of impending summer
and that smell in the air tingles my nose.
the goose-pimples on my arms rise again
as another boom rattles my window.

I light the candles, just in case,
and look around at malicious shadows
that crawl across the floor and climb the walls
and begin to wish I didn't turn the light off.

unglorious

in a small town,
a man with a plain name
walks a short tightrope
above an uncrowded
arbor-day carnival.

he catches his balance
as a little girl loses her balloons
and wonders what he's still doing
wearing threadbare costumes
and throwing dry smiles
at restless housewives.

patterns.

last night,
I counted your freckles.

you slept on, unassuming
and awoke
with my fingers still tracing

patterns on
your bare arm.

color me zamalek.

Look out the window at the dirty apartment building across the street. See a sea of beige curtains hanging like lonely puppets on dusty curtain rods. Down a little and to the left sits a little old woman with white hair surrounded by a warm glow behind magenta curtains. Her little old husband sits with a little old dog on a too-big chair in the window. Their air conditioner drips beads of color onto the grey sidewalk below and breathes life into the shallow puddle it creates.

If only the whole city could be decorated with magenta curtains.