I stopped dreaming of the house, left without a will:
warm and ‘tonal’ floor plans & ways for laughter to
travel in the steps of echo—

I stopped dreaming about the garden:
the pine tree bent over by years of bad snow,
three lemon trees lined behind my childhood

Maybe I stopped remembering it this way

I used to type your name in margins—
in Arabic first, right to left
then in English, left to see right

writing a name is bad omen: as if translation could preserve a folding

There was a future fixed by a new set of tulips,
where prayer calls and bells are sounded out
one or two kids playing under balconies

without flinching at every sound.

from the house I keep small things:
the recipe for ma’amoul*, in my mother’s neat hand writing
a photograph of the sea, labelled what it was.
a cracked mirror to hinder further disasters
a crocheted wedding dress my grandmother made—
linen, off-white,
too delicate to wear.

I never say the words: I am free
not in poetry, nor in rooms where people misspell
my last name to ask me where I’m really from.

I hear words come out in a voice that isn’t mine.
Laughter that takes up space I can no longer fill
if I shut my eyes long enough,

I see the border that was never crossed; a blank passport for years
a child I didn’t name after a city that changed its name,
Eighteen times with occupiers and earthquakes

Still—
I boil the water for tea, check on basil by the window.
I speak words into the walls
to keep the vowels warm.

I bury the future; in with the tulip bulbs,
I do not remember the exact spot.

*
Ma’moul: celebratory cookies done for Easter, the dough is made with semolina and butter, filled with crushed pistachios and sugar.

 

*

From Magma 93

 

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