i. the dust that light brings. the shame of birds without seed. (the way you held the stems between your teeth) & told me this will make us immortal. ii. when the old church at the end of the street shut down for two weeks due to threats of fire & fire & maybe worse, the way your hand found mine. the way you said habibi i’m scared. your soft palms & fingernails. iii. how your eyes swam when you laughed & the way the curls in your hair bounced with dance & your teeth white pearls & how your name means beautiful & radiant & when you’d kiss my neck a thousand church bells ringing & the streets pregnant with joy & how every night was one to break bread with strangers & the gentle hum of sunset in late winter & how children still came home & mothers didn’t forget the contours of their faces & the lights on the balcony & at night how they’d ring about your head a halo on ramadan & no one could remember the smell of tear gas & there was no war & no one was dead yet. iv. the first time you kissed me

how tears like pomegranates bloomed

from my open mouth

and when your sister saw

us in the kitchen you begged her

don’t tell baba, please. please.

and when he found out

the way you ran into the street

in your white silk gown

(bloody-nosed and beautiful)

with tears in your eyes

your fist trembling like

moths at a fire

and when you came back

your pupils like oceans

subdued. you packed

and i wanted to touch each vein

in your hand

but said nothing

instead.

and when

your eyes met mine

for the last time

i wanted nothing

more than that warm

day in October

when i gave you

the marrow from my

bones and you gave me

yours and my tongue

dripping blood

and we promised

it would always be

like this.

Glass: A Journal of Poetry is published monthly by Glass Poetry Press.
All contents © the author.