Autumn (a sestina)
From the window, she sees the sun as it falls,
its streaks of light glowing through the hanging leaves.
Just yesterday, it seems, the sun was out for hours
longer, but now it seals the day shut as it did September.
She returns to her stool, feet dangling, waiting
for a steaming mug of chocolate seasoned
with floating marshmallows. Her mother doesn’t see
her reach too quickly—the scalding mug almost falling
over as she takes an eager sip. She always hated to wait.
Tomorrow she will collect the drying leaves
with careful fingers, trying to usher in the November
piles a month too early. But her wishes dissolved into hours
spent, rake at hand, mimicking the motions of our
father as he gathered the leaves with a seasoned
patience. The heaps were mountains; at least that’s how we remember
them. They rested under the tire-swing, awaiting the fall
of a giggling child. The warm colored rainbow of leaves
splashing into the air under our weight.
Our time was spent in suspension, two sisters waiting
to grow tall like the trees from which we swung. We scoured
the attic, carrying boxes as big as us down the stairs: a maple leaf
cut from construction paper, fake cobwebs, a sea
of spider-rings and corn wreaths. But freefalling
through her favorite season, she failed to remember
time keeps moving. Soon it was November.
The biting cold and flurries threatened to eat
the golden crunching leaves that had fallen
while we were looking ahead. And soon more hours
passed. Then days, weeks, months and seasons
stacked up like gathered leaves.
With only a few warm days left,
we bundled ourselves and waited for December.
The trees stood bare: we could see
our breath. Now each moment carried weight,
Savoring the waning warmth, we are
holding closely onto what’s left of fall.
She thinks of all the time she left, the years fallen
behind her. The memories that became ours
transformed into reasons to make time wait.
Thoughts from Baltimore’s Inner Harbor
Feet dangling over the edge, the splintered dock stretches behind me.
A spread of wood dried a salty tan. Rounded nail heads protrude
through the planks. Below, the water is a black sheet of glass.
The air here is cold to the skin, a thin and hazy moisture
settles like dew. The sky above an expanse of overcast,
the clouds clustered in a single sticky fog.
Schools of birds swim through the white sky, their black forms splitting
the clouds, their flock formations cresting above the billowing masts,
a song of their cawing crescendos as they approach.
And then, with its nose cutting through the waves
in a distinct precision, the ship hurtles forward.
The bow’s grand shadow cast shamelessly over the meager dock.
I’m here—my hands gripping the dock’s corners,
my head tilted back. The hugeness of tomorrow
hangs like the boat’s towering walls—it moves
towards me with impossible speed, its weight,
its importance, heaving through my life
with staggering momentum, as the birds in their rapid flutter.
Miscarriage
Spreading the blanket that once swaddled me
onto the carpet, I practiced with a doll.
A big sister must be prepared, after all.
You watched from the couch with, what?
Amusement? Pride, maybe? Your belly
and family grew before your eyes.
Memories blurred, the images fuzzy
as the edges of the sonogram photo
that hung from a magnet on the refrigerator.
But I do remember when you told us,
my hands busy with blocks,
we made you pinky swear it was true
before congratulating you and dad,
parents for a third time.
I don’t remember when she died.
How did you tell us? That our sister disappeared
in thin air, it seemed, gone from the ultra-sound
screen. I stopped practicing after that.
You’ve told me now that Grandma came
to watch us, she understood how bad things come
in threes, your third happening half a century after hers.
Spectator
Inspired by: “Photographs of the Syrian Civil War” by: Alessio Romenzi
Neck craned, eyes wide,
I try to see past
the ocean of black coats
and draped head scarves.
The crowd whispers of injustice,
the word shabiha lies under
their breath, coated with blame.
They stand close, shoulder
to shoulder, shaking their
heads at one another in a
manner of understanding
that this is beyond understanding.
Yet amidst the guttural sobs
and quiet chatter, I can hear
the songs of the ‘arada,
their voices joyous, their hopeful
prayers reaching up to the ears
of Allah in request for the afterlife.
Their swords glint, the Syrian sun
reflecting its rays back towards the sky.