a bit of barely-edited work I wrote in writing group the last two hours. It endlessly fascinated me how three different prompts yield three different works, but there always seems to be a through-line. I never know my brain until I start writing, and even then...
1
the tendrils of our roots
intertwine. I don’t know
what’s yours
and what’s mine.
but we’re stitched together,
you and I
bound up like dry twigs
ready to burn with the world.
2
I know you are there.
Sometimes you’re the bird, and I’m the cage
and sometimes we switch
I don’t know which I like more
to hold you, or to be held
3
these steps to my heart are small,
like rungs of a dollhouse ladder.
you can scurry up them
and get here quickly.
and just as swiftly
you may also leave
4
There are ancient scrolls that say
many great things
many great things
many terrible things
about the world
how it was made, how it died
while God flew over
and watched us burn the world
over and over and over
and over and over and over and over
----
I was really going there.
Those were the two sides you needed
and I, of course, had been all of those.
It’s a dirty place, scattered and
I don’t remember thinking
"she’s just lost her mind"
I just think:
most of the good things
toward the end
was a bit like love
I didn’t cry
the first time I saw it.
I didn’t go up with tears
in my eyes
I said “Mine.”
You hated me for that
and I thought it too.
You said ,
“You only get an exciting chase
once.”
I could hardly breathe
I was just part of the landscape
along with drugs and a big glass ashtray
turned upside down.
You sat on a glacier
snorting cocaine
and I quit until I became sober enough
for you to stitch me
together
I should have done it
differently.
the bird cried
the ice caps are melting!
the ice caps are melting!
into the sea!
into the sea!
I was aware once
of things that brought me joy
I used to know how to fade like a gradient
into the background of the party
and be happy enough there
the textures of people places and things
adjusting, scooching, scraping in such a way
to make the world a bright light
you could see from space.
I was known once, by a man
who knew my name that no one else did
he asked me
min qalbi? Who is my heart?
in broken Arabic I answered “ana” “I am.”
ana
min eayni? Who is my eyes?
ana
min habbi? Who is my love?
ana habibi.
min rruhi? Who is my soul?
ana
ana
ana
Then,
You went away, I do not know you.
You disappeared, melted, sunk, drowned
like those ice caps
just as the bird said:
into the sea!
into the sea!
min habbi alan?
min habbi alan?
who is my love now?
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