Open Air Cinema in Heliopolis
You used to say, mother:
“Let me see your face when lit
by a crescent moon:
every day of the month
will smile the way you do.”
We saw double-feature movies
in open-air theaters.
The cool breeze ran through our hair,
over our necks, lifted our skirts,
swayed us in a magical carpet.
Tempted by vendors chanting
Greek cheese and sesame breads,
we often stayed, sipping icy lemon
granitas through replays, the lift
and pause of cascading light.
Characters entered our own
camera obscura.
We never agreed on their age:
you added a few years,
I wanted them closer to mine.
I remember a recurrent scene,
fading now into a sepia cameo,
where a woman—always the same
yet different—slaps a man
before falling in his arms.
I watched your face then,
as stars outlined the sky,
the slight opening of the lips,
the Gioconda’s elegant smile
you allowed yourself,
befitting the sfumato of the late hours.
Arm in arm, we walked home,
following the trail of the moon.
From Tea in Heliopolis, first published by Cutthroat and finalist for Nimrod’s Pablo Neruda Award
Writing in Dust
Let’s weave braids of dust rich
with time’s unspeakable
debris, broken voices, whispers,
dried tears, insects’ wings.
Doesn’t most of it come from
our discarded skin?
Or is it the residue of fleeting
breaths hidden in pillow edges
and seams, my kitten’s fur,
conjuring my old cat’s scent
alive in this impalpable,
minute form?
And is it true you can clone someone
with just one hair, one speck of flesh,
all of which hovers around you?
Some say don’t clean too much,
a house full of dust is a sign
of laughter, of good times
spent forgetting how to clean.
Some say chasing spiderwebs
in every nook and corner isn’t healthy
while unaware of those nesting
in one’s mind.
Let’s shake the dust in our heart
watch it fall like snow in a crystal globe,
paint open shutters, let the wind in
or think of what we might
write in our own dust
as on a sandy shore,
express the unthinkable,
unravel what informs that dust,
let it settle at will,
heavy as sand in an hourglass.
First published in Nazim Hikmet Fourth Annual International Poetry Awards: A Chapbook of Talks and Poetry, winner of the Nazim Hikmet Awards.
To My Son Upon His First Visit to Lebanon
From Tea in Heliopolis, first published by Pirene’s Fountain.
