reclaim your voice.
grúhún (eclipse) in the sky nunchai salted with the tears of your grandmother, given its pink hue with the blood of martyrs the blood of martyrs, matching the red pherans one dead. two dead. three dead. four. the sun has disappeared zain ul-abdin sheds tears for his people beyond the grave saraswati and shiva watch with downturned eyes…
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Me, a little girl In the crazy garden Working for the big girls I look up as They strut in With the wind at their back Effortless Gliding In glistening pumps Big hoops Blazer, sneakers, jeans —Doesn’t matter Me, a little girl Big eyes Staring after them As they breeze by Warm and watering…
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Here we go, baby Early city, hungry to conquer The doors open but you Ignore the beggar on the train Weak grandfather eyes As the herd swarms the streets, a mob Symphony, taxi!, mosh-pit cocaine Noises flashing Deaf in the eyes Feeling big, like its owner, its master Facing the forest of glistening towers…
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When do unattended-to childhood patterns Turn away from shame and Toward intentional tools of destruction Requiring only a whispered demand to be handed the bleeding heart’s supply They count on your sadness to Fill their bottomless cup of gladness And before you know it You’ve been punched in the eye Swallowing excuses, like in generations…
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What they’ll say: “What’s your opinion on Palestine?” “You don’t look very Jewish.” “You look too Jewish.” “Did you know that other gentile people died in the Holocaust, too?” What they mean: “Are you a Good Jew or a Bad Jew?” (There’s no right answer) “You would survive the Shoah.” “You wouldn’t.” “Your people need…
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softening denotes a lesson learned and overcome: the reunification of soul wisdom with the mind i examine a slice of the atrium wall, striations of color hidden by a neutral crust. my heart is coated with something gray yet inside it is still alive! i wait for the hardness to weaken by waters crash and…
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I’ve written short stories for as long as I can remember. If I re-read them now they go from being painfully hormonal, hyper-emotional to more nuanced, better crafted, with less telling and more showing. For a year or so now, I feel this is somewhat close to what fiction is meant to be — the…
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On a dark and cold December night that mystified the looming melancholy stretching its wings over the starry blanket, yellow street lights flogging the obscurity and the silenced sounds hovering over the colony away from the hullaballoo of the old city. Leaning on a chaise lounge next to the foggy glass window particular of winter…
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If my heart could write forever, What would it say? Would it just make musings of the pretty shapes on pretty paper to marvel at the sounds your mouth makes? Would it be long-winded Never-ending and ever twining Or would I be overcome with joy My pen a permanent smile on my lips The words…
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