And I realised: / even in the line to hell, / waiting for punishment, / we'd still reach for chanachur. / We'd still find comfort / in the crunch of survival
It would rain in the rains / And the rest of this poem would be written by someone else
Something you may... You may never find again.
My love always arrived wrapped in silence, wrapped in dust. But that was childhood.
We will make meaning out of the holes in the sun
There’s a purgatorial break between these stretches …flaxen against the lights
I am not a single name. Not a single wound.
Grey chips of rough cement Rust rubble all around,
This was the way it ended: not with fire, But carried quietly under sleep-beds,
Autumn transcended Winter– / Crispness in the air fell pale.
rise, rise—now evening dies: sun-born in valleys with burning olive trees—where women like me plod one day at a time,
For once, can love look like a Sunday morning; filled with warmth, calmness and motionless?
wounded limbs heal faster, / than a wounded conscience
What happens when your desire Lies in being alive?
Lacerating the unfortified,/ Picking at the flesh for bad blood to find
Bury your feet where its green And when the air is thin you will see
She’s as real as my meandering/ As tangible as tinkering.
Once a homebody, nestled in its embrace. Now lost, a wanderer in a boundless space.
Seven feet of mud swept water, /Bodies under rubble.
