ARAB HOLDS A POEM WITH A TICKER
I wish to write poetry that does not explode
I am tired of slugging its metaphors at the border
and reading them out loud in slant definitions
to the bald patrol guard with auspicious ears
I wish the tremors of me would unrun unsing
unhinge the wild generator that just won’t stop
ticking. I meant bark, as in the bark of a tree on
a calm afternoon in Central Park. I meant sow as in
you will reap the sweet melons of your right doings,
reign. As in there is no freedom without your reign.
I mean rain, the tears swelling that night you bombed
the hospital near my father’s house and spilled
his coffee. Bomb. I mean, you’re the bomb. Who? Me?
I’m heading left. As in I’m heading left from the
wasteland that was once my apartment. Left as in take
what’s left of me. I’ve not got much to lose.
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MAYA KAABOUR is a writer from Beirut based in Dubai. She has been secretly writing in her taffy notebook since the age of eight. She uses poetry and prose to dive deeper into her personal narrative and make sense of the world around her. Her work has previously appeared in Rusted Radishes.