morning after modern love

pop the pill

and late for class,

a little nausea but

“ yeah, sure, I had a nice time, too ”

Advertisements
morning after modern love

body pains

how many homes I’ve called my own.

how many homes I’ve woken up in;
stretched out comfortably,
took a bath, and made tea in,
left,
and returned to all over again.

how many homes I’ve stumbled into;
in the dark hours,
half-eyed but still,
dropped
into the right bed in.

how many homes I’ve bent my shape to;
hidden my expressions into
cracked cabinets, between
bedsheet creases,
and dusty pages of books strewn.

how many homes I’ve called my own,
felt at ease in,
doubled over in affection for;
how many homes
except my own.

body pains

cold soba tea

maybe I like the rain

bowing the mint in your garden,

tatami under my belly

I watch records spin.

the heat clings to my skin but

when you’re gone

the washed out mountains on your shoji

keep me cool through the night.

copper kettle on the burner

while I warm up the bath,

spend quiet mornings wrapped in hammock

glad I’d cut the past from my hair.

cold soba tea

tangled tracks

My love lies neglected on a naked pillow, cold where I wiped the juice from your thighs. It’s the forgotten change you try to shake from your pockets at the subway gates. You’ll walk – because you like walking, because you need a fresh air of a reminder, that all you wanted was to escape the tangle of my bedsheets before they strangled you into a feeling you wouldn’t understand. You’ll walk, because you prefer to keep things simple. You know the streets better than the ridges of my heart, and I’ll agree that they are much easier to map out.

tangled tracks

common culture

I slipped away from the prying eyes of thirsty men and my father. To the only place a woman can truly feel free away from the privacy of her home – the ladies’ room.
Except that this ladies’ room was the better half of a crumbling building, a roof precariously stitched to empty spaces in the walls.
A woman perched on the sinktop, passing a cup of coffee to her friend.
Damn, I thought, I wanted to have a smoke.
A shy smile, I slid into a stall. There was no door.
Damn, I thought, okay, as I crouched, moving my underwear.
It was hot in Jordanian summer, the smell of urine clung to the air, to the hairs in my nostrils.
I redressed awkwardly and went to wash my hands in the sink.
The pretend-sink. Rotted pipes filled with sand.
The girls lit up a cigarette, I sighed, hah, and
Me too! I lit up one of mine, my words a tangle anyway,
Popped up into the broken sink with relief and hung out for a while.

common culture