Published in Harmony
Vol.7 2005-2006
pink mouths
talk loud and fast
about husbands
discount buying clubs
cloth diapers
diaper rash
good schools
test scores
due dates
selfish fact
after great selfish fact
flattens tensions
into circles
of chatter
no aches
no loss
spelled in heavy words
no Indian movies
just minivans
sleep patterns
poop patterns
eating preferences
refused vaccines
fat emptiness
translated into
purchasing on-line
Gap quality
at discount prices
forgotten pedicures
longed-for massages
a solitary father appears
and that dowdy self-conscious
mother
smoothes her hair
her legs
her tummy
but remains
thick
and maternal
while those two tight-jeaned
hiply-dressed
mothers watch him
match their neat
son
daughter
baby
perfect production
and source of endless
conversation
paint pictures
of their completely
dilated cervixes
struggle to pull out
breasts
bursting with milk
no talk of the war
that’s coming
those thoughts
lie hidden inside
somewhere
smothered
by routine
or lack of interest
Published in The Poetry of Arab Women, Nathalie Handal, ed.
Interlink Books, 2001
This summer I caught handfuls of wind
At 65 miles per hour
In Kentucky
And imagined
That the air in my hand
Was laced with orange blossom,
That the billboards were not in English
And that you were next to me.
Your memories are piles of silk:
Colorful and unraveled
In a heap
Like your promises
I keep in a mother-of-pearl box
With the turquoise earrings
You gave me at birth
To ward off evil.
One summer I caught handfuls of wind
At 120 kilometers per hour
In Amman
And imagined
That you were not taking me
To the airport so late in a night
That tasted of whiskey
And that you would be next to me.
Your memories are photographs:
Black and white
On my desk
Like my stories
That I carry with me everyday
With the turquoise ring
You gave me at birth
To ward off evil.
Published in Food for Our Grandmothers, Joanna Kadi, ed.
South End Press, 1994
Under race/ethnic origin
I check white
I am not
a minority
on their checklists
and they erase me
with the red end
of a number
two pencil.
I go to school
quite poor
because I am white.
There is no
square to check
that I have no
camels in my backyard,
that my father does
not have eight wives
inside the tents
of his harem
or his palace
or the island
he bought
with his oil
money.
My father is a farmer.
My mother is a teacher.
I am white
because there is no
square for exotic.
My husband
does not have a machine gun
though sometimes his eyes
fire anger
because while he too is white,
his borders have long since been smudged
by the red end
of a number
two pencil.
My friend who is black
calls me a woman of color.
My mother who is white
says I am Caucasian.
My friend who is Hispanic/Mexican-American
understands my dilemma.
My country that is a democratic melting pot
does not.