Smells like Christmas

It smells like Christmas in my kitchen,
smells like the time I stopped
in the heart of the house

right in the middle like a clot
not moving nor let anyone move
to make Christmas over cold stoves

here is a list of things you need for cake
that serves 6, realistically
even if you are on your own:

* peeled apples
* 3/4 sugar
* flour
* cinnamon
* nutmeg
* salt (to taste)

I stand on a flat corner
kneading the flour
needing a listening ear

I stand in the corner
in my house,
shaking like a belly dancer after a long show
cupping powdered sugar to an empty heart

Calamity

There is calm in calamity
the way there's a pip in an olive
lodged right in the middle,
felt at only when bitten into.

He is born

Rest assured, for He has been born 

the one who created heaven and earth 

the one who saves heaven from this earth.

No appetite

there is no will
you tell me after I nudge you

to eat, to drink
even to live

this is a deep hole that you've sunk in
there is no one to claim

parentage reasons
you hear of wired words hanging:

triggers, envy, exhaustion
fatigue, lack of color, heavy eye-lids
unmatched skies, refusal of entry,
change, chaos, relaxation

the set continues
while you've lost the appetite

to even breathe
call it desperation, some say

but it is all in the gut, I answer.

Chores

The pan's lifted out of the fire
no burnt, the food filling stomachs

the sheets dry with the tinge
of the sweat that lined them for days

the boots all sparkling clear
of the dusk walked over in the streets

there is so much order in the house
where does this silence come from, then?

Hug

A hug, that binds
the pieces crumbling
that's all my heart needs.

Eyes

Hazel, like warm honey
these are the eyes I was given to look
I sought: the sun, the reflection of leaves, sunsets

Blue, like the ocean
these were the eyes I looked into
he sought: ice, skies, dusk

it was a matter of where
the eyes fell, for with the same shape
we still see with different colored eyes

the issue with poetry

is that it says too much
in too little, yet
abuses your comfort, this poem.

The girl behind the camera

The girl behind the camera
is the one seeing you
not seeing her

it hurts to see the stars
yet only feel their glow from afar

sleepless in your own bed

Much misery happening in your head
it is a shame
you lay sleepless in your own bed, every night

Bethlehem, a visit

Bethlehem,
here, He was born- a child
there, His Mother breast-fed him, on the road
while our mothers recluse to homes, in comfort.

Language on a crutch

I have severed the tongue in me, left it to wander for years
my native language limps onward
it walks by me on a crutch

Weariness in the step

This land makes me, this land kills the things I love
dreams dreamed out of the clouds
weaved with the sun, everlasting rain
this land makes me, Za'tar
breaks me bread, whole-wheat engulfed
kills the chance of standing on my two feet
without crutches propelling me upwards
this land kills those who love it,
with its thrones, with its rye
with what makes of it, a boundless emptiness
without borders or barb-wires.

this is the history of the lineage of women

This is the history of the lineage of women before you
those who were refused by mere being of age
of a certain skin darker than yours

this is the history of the line of women before you
ones who didn't talk about the lining of mistakes
over jealousy like butter and jam

this is the history of the line of women before you
who stood tall in heels
even when they preferred to be sitting

this is the history of the line of women before you
who never got a chance
in the first place to think deeply about the ways one loves

this is the history of the line of women before you
who failed at saying their mind
because speaking in a certain tongue chaffed at eogs

this is the history of the line of women before you
who realized they will become lessons
to the women who came after them in bold marching steps.

routine

A day recoils

With an old, warm fool surrender

This is routine 

what breeds in violence

Above the jaw, 

a little bellow the eye, 

not pink nor blue 

a little purple these days

she describes

exact location to where he deflated his anger 

I, blue and black 

know that what she said will ring in my ears longer than expected.

effort

There is a chance you take on kindness
an attempt to shine a light where there is no electricity
efforts you take leading nowhere

challenge to pick sides

It is a challenge
to pick up a side, in a battle
if you are always looking at it unfold from outside.

a muted celebration

How to do you dare to celebrate
when the world around you burns down
you mute the noise, that is the first step
then you light a candle
then you blow it
then you wish, like a five year old child
you wish that by the turn of the year
it turns better, this,
this is how you cultivate hope

I carry the music

I carry the music in me,
to help me batter death
like an egg leftover for too long

I carry the music in me
like a faith that I had to find
missing like a grain of wheat

I carry the music in me
like an ache that has been
transported on the keys of the piano

I carry the music in me
like a shield that will keep
the march forward going steady
regardless of the rain or shine