waking up to a state
of stateless
statehood
nameless
is a daily
reminder
of our affairs
even my poetry
is not safe from the
dispossession
of our form.
lh
sept 2022
stateless
give my regards
for toronto’s reset retreat centre
only some hold
both pleasure and
storm
despair nothing
known
and find
consolation
in the laughter
a labour of love:
forgives,
everything
allowing
compassion through a
healing act
where i come to rest
offers solace
sheltered from dissonance
it invites me to become the noise
the hush and hum
the stillness
and all the spaces
in between our memoirs
and eulogies
in the maddening
chaos,
forbidden
diaries subscribe to
an ethos of
care
intimacies
that touch every
word
you once
meant to say
but couldn’t
tenderly release
them into the
disorientation
of
this
dark matter
when you return to the
frontier
give my regards
to kindred spirits
waiting on the other side
to rejoice in
pockets of joy
and connected struggles
if there’s one thing
i’ve learned
during my brief encounter
with
the stranger,
the self,
with god
eternally revolving
in fleeting
moments:
at once,
mysterious
and captivating
it’s that,
to live in community
is to deeply understand
the plural of us.
lh
may 2022
red dress
she is woman,
giver of life
custodian of verses that
offer strawberries
to the shrinking landscape
of her womanhood
she was a body
of land
her wound,
a world
split
wide
open
by the excavation
of the sacred ground
beneath her feet
she is what becomes
of broken
totem poles and railway tracks
witness, i am
to
stolen
sisters
in towns that sleep
at daybreak
a red dress,
lynched and
hung
in the arms of
oak wood branches
the cotton fabric
of her frame
hugged by the wind
next of kin
fall heir
to the fires left
behind
and calls to justice
abandoned,
decay into cinder
and dust
folding starlight and lullabies
of salvation
into rib cages
that house guts of
strength
and the resilience
of the
departed
she is remembered for
being strong
when all she’s ever wanted
to be is
soft
let her be soft.
– dedicated to missing and murder indigenous women and girls and their loved ones
lh
may 2022
untitled #2
rest in power shireen abu akleh
what will these walls speak
when it braces
for the endless scream
in the breaking
news?
they feared her armed presence:
a camera
and the voice of a
generation
someone wrote:
“they won’t let us bury her,
they fear the earth
will revolt”
if the truth had a tongue,
this is what it would say
because
our land is fertile,
its fruit cyanide
our flag,
wreaths on caskets
of the deceased
beware your fate,
the world is rumbling
awake
your era of tyranny
is ending
and it is near.
lh
may 2022
untitled #1
letters to palestine
salute youth
martyrs
and the mantras
of concrete children
see them twist
midair
escaping snipers
and rubber bullets
fistfuls of stone
clenched between playground
scars and lifetime
sentences
their words compare
lucid visions
mightier than
the pull of earth’s
orbit
here,
the artist’s fate is
always,
prison
invoke
fieldnotes of a
catastrophe,
normalized
last time i checked,
there was nothing normal
about occupation
break the news
the same way we break
bread
fiercely
and urgently,
we are coming out of hiding
from the attic’s cell
upstairs
along with the archives
of our collective
memory.
– for my uncle, wallid al-hallis
lh
apr 2022
clockwork
mornings in jenin
among the almond trees
elders recite
psalms to
us
under besieged
skies
that rob us
of our holiest
days
communion
in this place
is being denied entry
on easter morning
and breaking fast
on tear gas
from dawn to sunset
clutching the whiplash
of shattered kneecaps
and lacerated
organs
yet
every year,
like clockwork
something like
a resurgence,
a resurrection,
a rebirth,
of jesus’s
second coming
we continue to resist
on the scales
of lifetimes.
lh
apr 2022
like smoke, she rises
she stands bare skinned in the bathroom
stretch marks sketched along her hip bones
cracks begin to settle in the depths of her skin
and still you mirror every part of her she has come to despise
like a tattoo inked on the forearm of a lover
now a distant memory
etched in the crevasses of her palm
you once held her hand,
and the heavens trembled beneath her feet
her pulsating heart
still bleeding blue
in clenched fists
unbecoming of her worth
you begged to touch the sun in her face
only for her to shrink herself into bite-sized pieces
small enough for you to digest the brilliance of her beauty
yet too magnanimous in its magnitude for you to absorb and nourish
your insatiable hunger
to prove her love,
she cascades desire at the mouth of the river bank
whispers mysterious into the wind
hallucinates dreams into the fullest crescent moon
and manifests light at the tapered bottom of a blackened sky
still you recoil under the weight of your own smallness
as she patiently waits
to taste sweet with you
light ablaze the tear soaked love notes folded between
the nape of her neck
and your front teeth
a message your carrier pigeon heart
didn’t know how
to deliver
when her halo broke,
she carved the two halves into horns
and the cosmos,
in all its expansive infinity aligned
so that she could breathe life back
into the hellish abode of her very existence
but beloved finally learned to read the signs
no longer believed in the illusion of a world conspiring against her
for every dark and lifeless night,
she marveled in awe-filled wonder
as the moon and her stars colluded in brilliance
to radiate her genius
and in her lonely,
absent of the leering, unsettled, critical gaze of an outsider within
she comforted the parts of herself
no one else dared or knew how to touch
asked questions which bled her into a corpse
of past lovers
and into the looming shadows
of the ghosts of yesteryears
and one by one
strawberry coloured birthmarks formed
along the dips and fractures
of her tired bones
between her navel
and the roundness of
her breast
tracing,
with her fingers,
the goosebumped, blue-veined constellations
along her torso
connecting the dots
as seamless and natural
as the sun and her flowers in spring
building a home within
still haunted by the torment of
a 100 years of solitude
she learned to master the stillness
of which bore the faint whispers of
her murmuring heart
reminding her to breathe softly
at once surrendering the thoughts
that weighed heavily on her crown
as they fell one after another
into
her
lap
like a spilled glass of white wine
dousing the burning blaze in her eyes
the raging forest fires in her belly
a quiet sigh washes over her
inhale
filling her intoxicated paper bag lungs
exhale
the smoke dancing all around her
rising,
rising,
rising,
gone.
lh
mar 2020
the day war came
the day war came
i folded
into a million pieces
as
europe
took up arms
to defend her homeland
becoming the sorrow
found in every note
in a playlist
awaiting the apocalypse
the day war came
i folded
into a million pieces
more
becoming the rage
found in every immigrant
whose motherland was once
invaded
raped
and pillaged
by foreign policy
in places where
mud is fertile
enough to fetishize
the glow of dark skin
dancing at the threshold
of orientalism
and military occupation
western imperialism
rearing its
ugly head
now tell stories
littered with double standards
in the grips of lessons
familiar
to the psyches
of my
people
notice the silence
between sentences
and in long gazes
it’s full of answers,
hear the breaking of clouds
before the thunder
claps
notice the pretense
in words
hoodwinked,
something hopeful
or patriotic
certain struggles
are worthy of fanfare
and heroism
these are the hands
that carry
a new world order
into clear skies
the same hands
that lift ashes into mouths
used to being fed
lies and conspiracies
i was 7 when
9/11
happened
growing up,
words like terrorist
and uncivilized
sprang across screens
in every home
as america waged
her holy wars
on foreign lands
and peoples
felt deserving of death
and destruction
while the earth slept,
we traveled
traversing makeshift borders:
into damascus
beirut
and
the west bank
over the entrails of
kabul
transgressing boundaries:
into the belly of
baghdad
once
the cradle of
the world’s civilization
call us what we carry
inheriting the war
and traumas
that crossed a bridge
as it trembled
and drowned us at sea
holding skeletons
and secrets
i would never say
but would rather sing
refugees
gaze at the ocean
in search of home
eat salt
learning to breathe
in luminous waters
be warned
the ticket to safety
will be your proximity to whiteness
the tabloids say
this tidal wave of migrants
is different,
this time
they are clean,
prosperous,
educated,
middle-class folk
don’t worry
they are not from
the middle east
not black or brown
dirty or violent
and certainly not,
disposable
they will not steal your jobs
or raid your homes
they are
just. like. us.
freedom,
now
looks like
strapping a bomb
to your chest
and declaring your kinsman:
a
brave
hero
he died for
his country
martyrdom
looks different depending on
where you come from
what you look like
and
who you worship
today,
allies of the world
welcome boycott
divestment
and sanctions
against the sworn enemy
sending their troops
and missiles
and well wishes
but none for saigon
cape town
or the ira
the day war came
pleas of scorched suns
summoned omens
of sacred covenants
rupturing treaties
and two-state solutions
wondering,
whatever happened
to the dead and
their portraits?
one of these days
when lilacs bloom
between cracks of doorways
and regimes
i will unlock the cage
for all to witness
soothe wings that take off
into radioactive turmoil
bones will crow
but at least,
what you have heard
is true
we are coming
to take back what is
rightfully ours
and we’ll rise in the sky
together
free,
at last.
lh
mar 2022
confessions of a bipolar mind
i swallowed a lighthouse,
once
decorated my body
with glitter and ink
to signal out
my reflection
let out
a shriek
into the chasm
of spells and rituals
when i spoke
gold fell from my lips
offered a prayer
to the tide,
moon rising
wings of fire
banishing the shadows
from the dark recesses of
this room
find me
somewhere between
the paradox
and the lie
when you read my poetry
know that you are
stepping into a mind
that steps outside of me
how do i explain
the mystery
of a bipolar mind
to a kingdom
that doesn’t understand
that not all poems
rhyme
this is not
a love story
i would leave me
if i could
dancing on the edge
of a cliff
20 milligrams
disintegrate between
my fingers
every night
i learned
when smoke rises
it burns
like a sage’s
sage
medicated
on a high odyssey
to sanity
i am the healed
not the sick
a little unhinged
but here.
lh
feb 2022
alchemy’s secret
time is a mother
running
northbound
where the arctic circle
is the gateway
to midnight suns
and twilight winters
alchemy’s secret
whispers
horoscopes
into
existence
through
jittering teeth
and cold airs
saturated breaths
nestle
evergreen pine
branches
unraveling
the golden years
of universal cures
and prolonged life
if you ever leave
and feel alone
because you did
catch up with
the sunrise
and push me out
to sea
do not
disappear
into the abyss
of your wild youth
music from before
the storm
will echo
to you
the true
meaning
of life
what is art
if not spiritual
dumped
into the landfill
of our celestial
limitations
encounters at the end
of the earth
will remind you
that
loneliness is time spent
with the
world
too
so go on and run free
escape in gentle wonder
go in grace
and don’t look back
let go
there is more
ahead of you
i
promise.
lh
jan 2022
an open letter
to all the men i’ve ever
loved
or have yet to love
when the earth’s spring
reminds you
to be soft
again
listen,
your body is not
a casket
for pain
to be buried in.
lh
nov 2021
his anger
his anger
reflects
all the times
he wanted to
weep
but
couldn’t
heaving enough
hot air
to beat himself
into oblivion
he carries it
close
like a companion
of the hard seasons
that rages
on
until his fists
pound all
the walls
and broken mirrors,
he owns
and
her pupils
soften into streams
her face
now,
a ghost town
mapped and abandoned
along her
cheek bones
calling a wolf
a wolf
is not enough
to stop
this house
from burning down
it’s already
engulfed in the debris
of his destruction
and
boyhood
wounds
nothing hurts
here
anymore
at least,
in darkness
we can pretend
do not go
gentle into the
nights
when she is angry
at the sun
for not setting
to extinguish
the fury of her days
and writes poems
that make grown men
cry.
lh
nov 2021
the magic of a winter’s afternoon
second thoughts
on a winter
afternoon
come to meet you
through every window
in search of the least abandoned
constellation
like purple clouds
on the horizon
pounding
at tempered glass
begging to know
asking,
what do you want
to be
when you grow up?
when we sleep,
where do we
go?
should you die tomorrow,
what will you
miss
the most?
and i answer,
when i grow up,
i want to be
a list
of endless possibilities
when we sleep,
do not disturb
maybe we will wake up
singing
if i should die tomorrow,
i will miss
the particular and ordinary
and before the songs
of night
come to visit
the purple haze
disappearing
behind the frames
of darkness
second thoughts
of a winter’s afternoon
remind me
that
even here,
the magic of this life
shimmers
with lustful wonder
curious
and
penetrating
the magic within
you
shimmers sometimes,
too.
lh
nov 2021
the child within
you’ve been here before
the child within
never forget
the child within
always
remembers
hurt was here
long before we were
to collect the names
of every stranger
whose ever taken our
kindness for
weakness
will you come and play with me?
ride the waves
until they settle my little beating
quivering
bones of milk and honey
be gentle,
my heart still hides wounds
that never bleed
time doesn’t heal all
but it gives us comfort
to think it does
don’t we?
why else would we
praise the rain
when it pours
somersaulting
in puddles that carry waters made of tears
hoping that tomorrow
will carry the weight
of an encyclopedia of a broken heart
relieve the burden of its
weight
volumes upon volumes
onto solid ground
lay flowers on sidewalks
that bear witness to
the pain
shed skins
tossed into the wind
with spirits
and ghosts of our recent past
memories
that testisfy
to the joy
of night skies
and shooting starts
that steal kisses at midnight
and the love
love
wading in typhoons
of butterflies and roses
you’ve been here before
the child within
never forgets
the child within
always
remembers
to heal,
you will cry
a lot
until neptune
washes away your sorrows
in holy waters
that baptize
the blood curdling screams
in the abyss
of apollo’s fire
you will laugh
until you have crow’s feet
for eyes
and the song of achilles
drum up
battles
yet
unsung
love was here
long before we were
to look into the eyes
of every loved one
whose ever held our
hand
leading us back to
ourselves
coming home
to oneself
is like finally having
the homecoming
you were never allowed to have
now,
you stand at the intersect
of what was
and
what could have been
and you realize that
sometimes,
you will break
but oh,
you will mend
the hearts touched by
crimson kings
and demons
because you are here
you have arrived
slinging arrows and bolts
from the thrones of queens
remember,
you are here
the child within
never forgets
the child within in
will thank you
the child within
always
remembers
they
always
do
they. always. remember.
lh
nov 2021
gaslight
this one’s for all the times
i’ve ever been told
it was never personal
they’re just like that
that it was all in my head
a vivid imagination
against my own better
judgement
that i’m just too sensitive
or overthinking it
i’m sure they didn’t mean
what they said
the good news
is that these flash burns
on my skin
from your gaslight
are starting to heal
but it’s still happening
and no
it’s not all in my head
and yes, it is personal
some call it islamophobia
others call it hatred
or bigotry
but i don’t care
what you call it
because
for me
it’s
1.
staring down
the barrel of a makeshift gun
made of trigger fingers
from a passing vehicle
a violent gesture
with a cautionary tale
that says
i’d rather have you dead
than to see you alive
2.
it’s the pickup truck
barrelling down the road
towards us
as we scurry across
barely making it to safety
his middle finger waving
warning
3.
it’s creeping shadows
that follow
our every footstep
during our evening stroll
harassing stalker
greets us
with bible thumping
verbal venom
4.
it’s taking one glance
at me
and assuming that my name
won’t fit the contours of your mouth
this shade too dark
this clothing too veiled
this face too foreign
my presence too much
for you
to comprehend
how this muslim body
could be volunteering
her time
at this soup kitchen
and still i disintegrate
crumbling into a hollow shell
before those very words
5.
it’s the vandalized brick walls
of family businesses
and defaced exteriors
of our masjids
an act to intimidate
to strike terror in hearts
that beat on
an ugly reminder that
we do not
belong here
6.
it’s—
ma’am,
you’ve been “randomly” selected
for a secondary screening
follow me
and i follow
7.
it’s quebec city
and christchurch
and chapel hill
it’s deah
yusor
and razan
it’s 6 dead
it’s 51 dead
it’s 3 generations
dead
i remember exactly where i was
that one fateful night
ran downstairs in a panic
saw my brothers
my father
my uncles
on the evening news
and touched their faces
to make sure
they were still here
8.
it’s
opportunist politicians
offering their thoughts
and prayers
when all i see
are crocodile tears
and class a theatrics
the irony is not
lost on me
they are part of the
problem too
yet they won’t even
leave us in peace
to grieve our dead
9.
it’s
what’s the word for
not feeling safe in your own home?
it’s
i found the word
but what difference does it make?
10.
it’s
i’ve lost count at this point
but honestly,
i was never really good with numbers
anyway.
lh
june 2021
streets & sidewalks
i’ve walked these streets
a million times before
these sidewalks
house cracks so deep
they break the backs of mothers
who worry about their sons
every time they exit the front door
send them off
into battlefields
drafted for a war
they did not ask for
little boys with beautiful brown skin
blossom into men
with beards
labelled terrorist
i’ve walked these streets
with my mother in arm
a million times before
her crown
call it her hijab
adorns the profile of her face
bold and dazzling as she
these sidewalks
house cracks so deep
i step over them
to show her that we too deserve
to land on solid ground
grew accustomed to
the disregard
for the way you
take up space
and memorized
glares and scowls
like the back of my hand
from menacing eyes
that take aim
darting pellets
like target practice
i walk these streets
now
and my body seizes up
with every passing vehicle
i walk these streets
now
and wonder about the 9 year old child
orphaned into nightmare
i walk these streets
now
and wonder about
how that could have been me
wonder about
how that could have easily
been us
these sidewalks
house cracks so deep
they do not falter
inside these four walls
where grief has made a home
i am reminded that our faith
too
does not falter
unapologetic
and resolute as we are
i will continue to walk these streets
a million more times
until these sidewalks
graciously absorb my every step
i will continue to walk these streets
with arms spread wide
and take up the space
i’ve always deserved
i will continue to walk these streets
undeterred
until these sidewalks
house dandelions that bloom
from between
cracks
flowers
bright and yellow
flowers
they greet me
with signs of the seasons
rumor
change is not only coming
it’s already on its way.
for fayez afzaal
lh
june 2021
i hear them calling
memorial at the vancouver art gallery honouring the 215 indigneous children whose remains were discovered at the kamloops indian residential school in bc (photography by ben nelms, courtesy of cbc)
this soil is drenched in blood
that runs across highways of tears
and scorched pavements
beneath the trenches of this land
hear the whimpers of an ailing mother earth
her children
their bodies discovered
by dragging knuckles
across unmarked mass graves
dousing gasoline on flames and traumas
that devour smoke
and entire nations
like a furnace
piercing shrieks
rumble partition walls
thundering,
between shriving pews
that hold pages of gospel
pressed between the blood-stained hands
of priests
and rosary beads
bear witness to the bones
and scattered ashes
the silence
there’s nothing your half-mast symbolisms will do
to reconcile the wreckage
you’ve unleashed on young spirits
i hear them calling
hushed whispers
asking to come home
if the root of oppression is the loss of memory
then is remembrance the threshold to justice?
an open door
towards a mosaic of truths
a balm for healing
a tender loving softness
against these hardened plastered walls
built on genocide and theft
oh, little ones
you deserve more than
empty apologies
and hollow promises
you deserve more than
candlelit vigils and teddy bears
you deserve to be seen
to have your names and stories released
from these secret shrines
to finally put to rest everything that has ever hurt you
you deserve justice
we will keep fighting
for you.
dedicated to residential school survivors and their families
lh
june 2021
nakba ’73
today is not a poem
woke up feeling guilty for resting my head on the pillow
as gaza laid her children to rest
i remember their faces
their names scattered in a sea of stars and survivors
they came to me in my sleep last night
pleading:
we are hurting
we are afraid
we are tired
today is not a holiday
donned my mother’s taub and keffiyeh on my shoulders
as haifa and ‘akkā wrapped white linen
around the limbs of lynched bodies
to contain what’s left in the lasting rupture
between flesh and blood,
still warm
between occupied and occupier
between past and present
or rather,
between what was and what has become
today is not a celebration
spoke with my uncle
prayed for his safety before wishing him eid mubarak
told me that death came knocking
but fled as soon as it arrived
he reminded me of memories we once shared
as if nostalgia can somehow erase the goodbyes in his voice
i wanted to say i love you
but couldn’t find the words
instead, i said:
i miss you amu
please take care amu
we will be reunited again someday inshallah
amu
what’s the equivalent translation of love
for a people that have a long-lasting affair
with poets and hopeless romantics
anyway?
i read somewhere once
that when a body carries a trauma
not yet metabolized
it learns that to love bares an attachment
not ready for loss
catches on the tongue
slicing it in half
twisted,
i’m sorry for not being better when i had the chance
today is not a feast
ate kahk that tasted bitter
as our fingertips
curious and penetrating,
scrolled through our news feeds
sprinkled powdered sugar
until it resembled the tops of snow-capped mountains
purged guilt and bile and confessions of an exiled mind
digesting the pleasure of sweetness
is a privilege my body cannot seem to bear
today is not a ceasefire
it is a liberation movement, uninterrupted
sheikh jarrah was once every city’s worst nightmare
resistance is greater than this iron fist
it also looks like jerusalem
she was dancing colours and patterns
children twirling in laughter and joyful bliss
all around her
a defiant hum
something like a hopeful melody
sung
from the tops of the minaret speakers
of al aqsa:
we are an uprising,
multiplied
we are an exodus,
returning
we are an ode to the people,
singular and united
we will never leave
we are here to stay
we are here
we are
we. are.
lh
may 2021
last words of the unarmed
on most nights
if you listen close enough
you can hear the echoes of the last words of the unarmed
whose names reverberate the chants of movements
that mattered long before they were cool
i stand on the shoulders of giants and freedom fighters
from bds to black lives matter
born of legacies before my time:
civil rights, decolonization and anti-imperialist struggle
are the reasons we kneel
we bow
prostrating
before god
we the people
from ferguson to gaza
south africa to kashmir
take up our grief in the streets
light the establishment on fire with our fury
shout prayers into the night skies
wage a holy war against a system that claims to serve and protect
the
people
over profits
has always been profits
over people
you say they’re just a few bad apples
but how could that be
when one is known to spoil the bunch
and the rotten fruit kills
don’t be deceived
you see
george zimmerman, darren wilson, and amy cooper
were deliberately placed there
like a perfect game of chess
strategic and intricate in design
to keep the emmett tills and trayvon martins of this world in their place
i can’t breathe
birthed a national slogan
in legacy and death
say his name
no justice, no peace
#ericgarner
left for dead on the scorching pavement in july
fo(u)r hours
hands up, don’t shoot
say his name
no justice, no peace
#mikebrown
failing to signal
is not a death sentence
but apparently sleeping in your home is
say her name
no justice, no peace
#sandrabland
#breonnataylor
mental illness is not a crime
and a child’s imagination
wielding nothing but creative playtime energy
is not a threat
say his name
no justice, no peace
#abdirahmanabdi
#tamirrice
if taking a knee
makes you a patriot
then what does it make you when you kneel for…
8 minutes and 47 seconds
on our necks?
#georgefloyd
takes the world by storm
all smoke and mirrors,
no fire this time
say his name
no justice, no peace
more than 2000 still missing and murdered
never forget
#tinafontaine was only fifteen
verdict of yet another white, male assailant: not guilty
say their names
no justice, no peace
#nomorestolensisters
there is no just-is
when the ahed tamimis stand defiant
against the unwelcomed presence of idf soldiers
at the doorsteps of their homes
brave and steadfast
feet planted, palms shaking
they strike blows in the face of zionist invasion
and resist the plunder of their birthright to exist
i once heard that real justice is what love looks like in public
it’s #rachelcorrie
rising from the rubble in rafah
her memory bigger than
a fleeting moment
of solidarity
before the bulldozer that demolished homes
and dreams
and the barrier between two worlds
the privileged, the american
and the underclass
the occupied
the marginalized
she knew this well
before she died,
she wrote:
“i have a home.
i am allowed to go see the ocean”
spineless political class of the 1%
lie to us between their teeth
with clenched fists behind their backs
and media moguls spin a narrative
where muslim is synonymous with terrorist
black with criminal
mexican with illegal
our protesting becomes looting
and they claim israeli airstrikes are in self defence
against hamas rockets
we are the collateral damage
that no one cares to fit into sound bites
memorializing through hashtags
will not bring them back
whiteness reigns supreme
claims colour blindness as alibi
while bombs rain down on baghdad
and chokeholds tighten around the hearts of childless mothers everywhere
on most nights
when i shut my eyes tight
transported into the belly of the underworld
i imagine
an alternate universe
where the echoes of the last words of the unarmed
reverberate a promise
handwritten from the future
sealed and signed
by working class poets, artists, thinkers and healers
whisper,
we’ve already won.
lh
sept 2020 / feb 2021
daughters of palestine’s diaspora
map my story on my back
orient the sails to the east
disembark halfway between the origin points of here and there
lest i drown in the void of never enough
we are the children born from olives trees
into exile
we swim to stay afloat
along streams and empires
daughters of palestine’s diaspora
combust to ignite the path of a road less travelled
leave a trail between checkpoints
dig graves with our searchign fingertips
only to find bodies colonized by broken promises
i repatch the earth with hopes and memories
of my ancestors
collect their bones and bury them
into the flaming soil of an undying legacy
my mother tongue
is my mother’s tongue
she is a song of stars
her name, lost in translation
to a language that doesn’t know how to pronounce her correctly
blunts the soft and sacred arabic spirit
into the straight edges of their pleases and thank you’s
to a language that
paints a mockery of accents and broken english
on a canvas absent of sorry’s
i spit tongues
foreign between lips
master lyrics in the vernacular
sing prophecies into dark grounds
that brew storms at the bottom of coffee cups
sometimes, the words stumble out of my mouth
like wilted flowers made of glass
jagged edges cut the insides of my cheeks
as we talk blood, fire, and men
my mother tongue
is my mother’s tongue
she is a song of stars
her humanity, lost in translation
to a nation that demands that her children at once confess their birthplace
“here” is not an answer they are willing to stomach
would rather dance this tired charade with you
beat the colour out of your melanin
interrogate the genesis of your god
than to accept
you
are a migratory bird who got lost along the way,
wounded
and can’t find its way back
but this nest is all you have
leaving the womb
i did not seize any land
but the inheritance of courage with trembling lips
the weapon of his smile
the elixir of her love
i wear it like a family heirloom
across my collarbone
i was a time between time,
birthed into the twilight
i learned that when a man cries
the shore meets the sand
with every tide
and the sea returns to me
the contours of my spine
are the tops of hills and valleys
they tell stories of sleepwalkers
who awaken from night terrors before dawn
to catch a glimpse of mountaintops
i visit all of the places my father’s dreams have been
sequels in transit
from generation to generation
across raging oceans
that weather questions that taunt and scratch and wither:
when do we get to shed our skins of second class?
look, we worked hard
drilled degrees and diplomas on our walls
have we done enough?
sacrificed enough?
assimilated enough?
are we enough? for you
i visit all of the places my father’s fears have been
in pent up masts and spars of fury
ashen stormed ruins of grief and sullen faces
occupy the insides of glass bottles
the day the ships came
his hands holding a map of ashes
set in motion
heartbeats of war drums and friday prayer sermons
compass needles morphed into swords
pointing me towards jerusalem
running,
i gave up searching for home
stuffed zaatar and almonds and sage into my front pockets
to not forget where i come from
and moved to the beat of my own drum
kept dancing until the air was drunk
with the sweet smells of rose water and saffron
and truth dribbled like honey
from the mouths of babes
fell out love with belonging
settled nowhere and for no one
detached my backbone
and tethered it to velvet wings
daughters of palestine’s diaspora
take flight amidst battle cries
forgotten by tomorrows,
survive in the telling of story
of warriors and intifada martyrs
protests and acts of political warfare
we are the children born from olive trees
into resistance
the pulses of our beating hearts, is too, a revolution.
lh
apr 2020