Travel by nighttime

part of a longer piece of work:

If we travel by nighttime,

we'll turn the page on day-light,

my swollen forehead will disappear

the shrapnel over your tongue will not cut you

perhaps it will stop the blood from trickling down your words

and sleep again

There's not a lack of dream, when what you see is a screen of
pitch darkness.

there's significance in pauses, commas and interjections
and black screens in dreams are meant for a rest
from thought, from color and from shapes
deformed by waking.

There's no shame in dreams, no shame in reenacting and
wishful thinking, it's one big act
imagination never harmed its owner
the same way streams never sink God.

There are no excuses in dreams, there are no justifications
snakes talk and humans listen and doors lead to answers
and the edges of an exclamation mark.  There's no need to explain
to me your fantasy, there's no shame in dreaming

Dream then but keep the details
polish them the way you do sliver,
keep your dreams and give me your nightmares
I might brag about the shadows in your sleep-
keep the trail of thoughts because your dreams stop
when you allow others to fall into them
like reality. This is what keeps you thinking
I heard.

when departed

Moved with the wind, we departed

Teach a man how to fish, the proverb said
teach a woman how to sow a button, the old ladies said
everyone left their wisdom for us, before departure
young and vain, we needed to learn how to measure
the heat of water before we fished

I left first,
you objected and I held you back

You left
I objected, but you didn't hold me back

instead, we both wanted to learn to re-navigate the world
witlessly, wireless, like a blind child learning to read Braille
attached to the letter
but we wanted to fall into the traps of safety
 the mother of comfort, the black-widow of worry

I didn't need you to teach me how to fish
 you taught me other skills:
to watch for the season of wheat when it turned gold,
like my hair. You knew better, the fundamentals
You gave me wheat
not to starve, you said
plant wheat, you said
for the seven years of famine in my absence.

Avoiding the stampede of wild horses

I.

Like dusk, it rises steady
the sound of hooves against the desert sky
glistening with leftover rain and clear starry night-I can see it
the sound of tapping, imminent
the wild horses are coming-
dressed in black cloth and turned-back whites
whiter than pearl and browner than burning hay
the horses are approaching
my pens

II.

on the bases of the river, the neighing rests
it drinks the blood of the desert, to run again
young, elixir washing over the horses
wild ones.
When I watch them I wonder
who inflicts the hooves in my language?
who ties the wilderness to my tongue?


III.

the burning sand carries the whiff of the jasmine,
the burning sand carries you when you step- fair maiden
careful like the mare, away from the herd- march
Sweep by the river, fair maiden
trail your dress' tail into the rush of the oasis
and be careful of the current, it might grip your hair
as you dangle for water, forgive the sirens
they shriek, their beauty you stole
and left them the power of song
how could they not grieve their loss?

IV.

the night wind blows again, but I find myself
a fair maiden, alone in bed
Who invited the horses into my slumber?
who told them to graze over the remaining bits of my brain?
I do not recall stepping out of the way for the hooves
who provides their wild insanity and for their hunger?
Why do the horses come into my head?

V.

When I asked you that day, if like me you read
the last pages of Black Beauty
you said you couldn't care less. It starts with my love of horses
and your silence, like a disconnected line
figure it is your right,
It is easier to avoid the mound of questions I heap onto you
the same way a Bedouin avoids the stampede of the desert's wild mares
and its untamed horses, unheard to inexperienced ears.
it rests untamed, the words you never spoke
sending the horses wild, behind my eyes.

received, not at birth

She was born with a name but received another
by the change of places and faces.

The childhood road she walked, adorned with trees
and paved with boys was all glistening with hunger.
the boys hunters of  flesh, like mosquito watched
her tidy knee-whites, ticking and cracking twigs of autumn
 she became Daddy long-legs, like a fly, swatted for a good night sleep
she proceeded downhill, the first name stuck to her like a tail.

she gained the second name by a love of chocolates
in the light years, ape-face became her reference
blotched red she knew her options were limited
she wouldn't be receiving roses that Valentine
and chocolate was strictly forbidden
she knew she couldn't change her face
but she could, like her name- wear another.

she became known to her friends as  princess,
because they thought she was now fair
she was bleached beyond repair, whiter than snow
bent into believing life, the same way a child
believed in fairy tales. What was offered, always a happy ending
because when you are not laughing you
are laughed at, it was a circle.

when he came into her life
he referred to her by degrees of cool
from zero to burnt
she hotter than  pizza, but felt cooler like ice
when he changed her name to a status
she bit her red hot lip.

with her name changing so much she, called herself no one
because she believed she was
 the words they said, the names she wasn't born with.

The question

What does one do with things that do not decompose
like longing that comes in the shape of a frequently used
smell?. Irrational, these thoughts.
What doesn't die out stays for lack of purpose, or place
like a whiff of almonds and roses, perhaps it knocks on one's door in winter
to remind,at least me-of the glory that passes on cat feet.
Maybe the secret lies in bitterness' tang  at newness
newness demands a look at the raw core of  elements:
new children with pink flesh,
unopened books and the wave of an old tune's flag.
It is possible to hide what doesn't lean itself to decay
display is the word then, like antique shops and museums
cram them with decay to preserve
memories that shouldn't, horrid nature that belongs
to kingdoms non-human.

but the real question remains: what does one do with the fight against decomposition?
let the fire then
be the answer.

Looking in the mirror

I urged her at birth
to stop looking in the mirror at how God made her
I told her, it is nearly impossible to detect the flaws
because He creates no imperfections
and she believed me, trotting in her pink dress.

I still urged her at teenage
to stop hating the mirror
as she was whole. true, she was sewed with tears, that she knew at birth
but she was  infused with a universe inside of her
and still she broke, little by little
on the missing bits of her
she broke with the bits extending out of her
and she blamed the eyes
and she blamed the mirrors.

I told her when she started university
that she can be anyone she wanted
that things were always in her hand
even if she could not see them with her naked eyes
even if her soul was naked when her body was layered
I told her she can be anyone and she became
everyone she met.

 These days I know her by the walk
by how others look to her in awe
all because she stopped looking in the mirrors
and started looking elsewhere
for beauty.