The Air We Breathe & Fists and Palms

The Air We Breathe

Why do you avert the gaze of my people
when you can still hear them breathing?

Do you not breathe the same air?

Think of the air between the pleading mouth
and the unreceptive ear
The air that tickles the eyelid before the blink–
and the trickling tear
The air between the firm handshake
and the limp one
The air sucked in and blown out
as a sigh, a grunt, a snort
The air in an intentional cough
Think of the airs you put on:
apathetic, arrogant, condescending

Do you not breathe the same air?

Think of the air swallowed in shallower
and shallower breaths just before sleep
that never comes
Air now compressed in white-knuckled grips
Air cut off in choke-holds of stolen breaths
The air of despair: stagnant, stale, stricken
as strife 
See the air swirl between foe and friend
The churn of blowback dust on children’s faces after
the bomb: air so still in the fallout shelter

Do you not breathe the same air?

Air once so sweet on that shining hill
Air that smelled of olives and jasmine
Air fresh, effervescent, life-giving
Air that wriggles out from bloodied, clasped hands
as incense, incantation

Air as winged messenger of freedom missives
Air that whispers from the universe’s unpursed lips
to humanity’s tone-deaf ear: Cease
Please, cease

Fists and Palms

Once a priest in a sermon said that all babies arrive with clenched fists
       and all the dying leave with upturned palms. 
Even as a child, I knew what the priest meant. That we come to earth ready
       to fight for our lives. That we leave it relinquished to our fates. 
But when I think of clenched fists now I think of my dead father, 
       and when I think of open palms I think of my dead mother. 
As an adult, every metaphor slips away like water, dew on leaf, 
       ice on tongue, tears down cheek. Everything melts away
too quickly to hold on to. Marriage, fatherhood, family, friendship, work, life.
       I know I have never fully grasped any of it. You can’t grasp anything
you love with a clenched fist. And you can only try to do so with an open palm. 
       Often the only fists I felt were those pounding in my head or banging
in my heart or clenching my eyeballs from the inside and squeezing them dry. 
       Even open palms can hurt with a slap across your dignity, and you end up
with ego all over your face. Life sometimes hides in corners, sneaks up on you,
      covers your eyes with its gloved palms, leads you to places of sadness
you don't want to go. Sometimes, it screams in your face or shoves you from behind,
      trips you over and you get up, scramble, raise your fists to fight
but there is no one there. Only a ghost in a mirror, with two white-knuckled hands
      gripped together as one big fist or clasped tight as if in prayer. 
And if you peer close enough, you recognise them as your own.

Artwork Courtesy of our featured Artist Hassan Zahreddine