the elements of fetal

Birth and Rebirth, Jen Otey

i understand, now,

something i have never understood before.

and i just want to close my eyes and breathe again.

i just want to close my eyes.

i just want to close my eyes.

i just need . . .

i just need . . .

out of my heart, i boot one loaded breath.

something inside me is changing.

something inside me is coming alive.

inside my knee, there is a mouth.

inside my stomach, there are two eyes.

inside my throat, there is an ear.

it hears, something inside me is shifting . . .

the geography of me.

something inside . . . be silent, it hears.

but there is no silence in the aliveness of growth.

there is no deafness in movement from here to there.

someone once told me,

it is not the darkness that we fear.

it is the light that terrifies.

but is this a truth, as truths go?

am i afraid of sensory overload?

fragments of me are seeking new homes,

new places to call shelter.

i hunch my back in fear.

hunch?

cave.

cave, as in a primitive place of shelter?

cave, as in bow.

bow, as in something you wear

around your neck or in your hair?

bow, as in curl.

curl?

curl up, fetally.

fetally?

an extension of fetal,

that condition in which we bob, anesthetized.

fetal, what we are before the darkness descends.

fetal, our true shelter, our true home.

fetal? fatal, if not delivered properly.

delivered with decorum,

like that man’s haloed head, delivered on a plate.

plate, as in something you eat from?

plate, as in to cover with a precious element,

to beautify the tarnish and make it glow.

but . . . enough now.

i curl into myself for comfort.

i curl . . .

but even curling is a challenge.

this red tide is turning.

this moon . . . blood-red moon.

pulling my tiny, wrinkled face . . . all eyes . . .

enormous, muddled eyes.

flesh stitching itself over bones.

not enough air.

pulling me into the light.

bringing me inside.

bringing me back to fetal,

where i just need is all i know.

of secrets... and scars

Woman's Back by Maya Kulenovic

my love… my love

i’ve something to confess

something to show

turn on the light

though you can feel it with your fingers

turn on the light… and look

here is my back

lovely… soft… silky

like polished marble

warm… smooth… flowing

like liquid gold

yet… come closer, my love

and you will see

a cut that i can no longer reach

sculpted… thin… sharp

can you see it, my love?

the blood inside it dried long ago

but you can still feel it

you can feel it with your touch, my love

touch your finger gently to it

touch your finger to… my scar

a cut in the flesh of my back

no… not where you are looking

look lower… my love

and you will see it

gentle… obscure… but present

you see it… i know you do

an electric shock has fired beneath your skin

a tension… a confusion

a throbbing in your blood

why are you silent, my love?

there is a sorrow inside your eyes

a fiery sorrow

while a chill

and blue

radiance

fill

this november sky

your stabbing eyes

yes… stabbing, now

carry a weapon i have not seen before

a weapon that cuts more deeply

cuts… the surface of my skin… to my veins

cuts… the surface of my Self… to my soul

and my instinct, my love

my instinct is to turn away from you

to distance my Self

as you have distanced yours

what is this i see in your eyes, my love?

what is this look of… alienation?

angst?

illusion?

an illusion more illusory than fantasy

and this absence of certainty

i don’t know…

a secret, perhaps?

one i should not decipher

one you will not confess

but, look… look, my love

i know you don’t want to

but, look

you have been expecting… and denying

at the very same time

look… and listen

i could have fabricated one million lies

but i am filled with truth, my love

my truth might have one million colors

but it is mine, my love

i do not disown it

does this not matter?

does it not absolve?

oh, no… my love

do not open the door

i will open it for you

for… should you open it yourself

you would slay me

you see... with your love

i felt as though i was remaking the universe

but, then

even the omnipotent are imperfect

and i

i have revealed my imperfection

to you

but, no

do not turn off the light before you go

truth is more acute in the darkness

come, my love

here is my back

my back that once surrendered to your hands

...

do not say that, my love

do not say that my back has surrendered

to illicit hands

for full surrender was to your hands

and to your hands alone

bring those hands, then, my love

you have seen… but not touched… my scar

it is too late to try and heal it

it is too futile to try and erase it

but maybe… with your hands… you can caress it

and bless it

with forgiveness… and absolution

i have danced with fire

and my body was licked by tongues of flame

but… my body… is still whole, my love

and here… i am showing you my scar

does this not matter?

does it not absolve?

i beseech you, my love

come to me

and lay with me

we will but speak, my love

my lips do know how to speak 

without caressing

and, though i have a scar

my back is still

lovely… soft… silky

like polished marble

warm… smooth… flowing

like liquid gold

can you not forgive one scar, my love?

it was a miscarried intention

a superficial incision

your cuts go wider

your scars go deeper

no

not the scars your hands implanted upon my skin

but the scars another has implanted upon yours

yes, i have seen them

but… please do forgive my tears

they are miscarried intentions, too

i do not mean to confuse

i do not mean to deceive

i am not crying

see?

here are my eyes

dry of tears

but

can you not forgive one imperfection, my love?

i have forgiven so many scars

but, no

do not open the door

i will open it for you

i am not crying

see?

here are my eyes

dry of tears

here are my lips

trembling with truth

here is the door

open for your denial

and here is my back

imperfect… my love

imperfect
but yours

i accept the silence

"Abstraction White Rose" by Georgia O'Keeffe

silent

my dead grandmother

forever silent

and cold

and alone

but there are secrets to be shared

and confidences to be breeched

and promises to be broken

you come to me

you read me your letters

her letters

letters returned

unopened

unanswered

and you tell me

your mother has a black heart

and

glass

your eyes

glass filmed over

by gentle breaths in unforgiving cold

and glass

the wall that separates us

we can see

but not touch

we can look

eyes drifting

desiring

and our hands can reach out

for intimacies that can no longer be realized

your mother has always scorned affection

you say

and my heart wants to jump to my mother’s defense

maybe out of fear that she will hear

from her place so far away

this mute conversation

that gouges loyalty in the throat

i want to tell you about those times

my mother had looked at your black and white photo

hanging on her living room wall

and said she looked like the actress in that old movie

the white rose

but i recognize the past tense

and the word old

is a cloud over a full and beaming moon

i want to tell you my mother

has always been affectionate

but your daughter and my mother

though the same person in appearance

are two different women in essence

so i sit on my chair

in silence

and see you as if through a peeling mirror

mirror

the back of your china cabinet

where i looked at myself as a child

amidst the glimmer of french porcelain

and i counted my freckles as if they were coins

and i thought i could fly

and i remember running down the hill

outside your house

running breathless and effortless

the ground rising like slow motion

rising to meet me

my heart lifting

bloodless and fleshless

feeling like if i stepped into the air

i could fly

before doubt grabbed a hold of me

and wed me to the asphalt

you cleansed my face

of blood and shards of macadam

and your voice was gentle and steady

as you lulled me to sleep that night

and i sit with you now

and your hand is cold

and your face is ice

but even in death you are so beautiful

and tears stream from your eyes

and i try to tell your tears

i try to tell them you are not dead

but they quiet me and tell me about

tormented spirits and haunted souls

and glass

your body

and mirror

your soul

and you are here and you are not

light and weightless

like a shadow on a wall

and i want to say things

grandmama

as if this moment does not know

the meaning of itself

as if to cover the silence

but the words shun my lips

so we sit still

you

with me

with you

and time accordions between us

and we accept the silence

and we close our eyes

and i see

your extinguishing presence

sharp as a pinprick to a blind woman’s finger

and there are yet gulfs to bridge

and labyrinths to unravel

but you speak

as you go

only

of the thirst of a mother

for her daughter’s love

and all of what you say

you say not with your lips

but with your eyes

and all of your words

i hear with my heart

because death and absence

are not an end

but an eternity

and so

i accept the silence

zar

they said she was possessed by demons. they said she challenged the spirits. they sat in the parlor and clucked and gossiped about someone’s sister and someone’s daughter. they said she was a distant relative. they said we used to play together as children. that we measured the breadth of the sky with our hands. and played dress-up in our mothers’ wardrobes. but that didn’t matter anymore. that was before the demons. that was before she screamed in the bathroom. that was before she called them out of the dark. before the headaches and the muteness and the doctors and the psychologists and the sheikhs and the priests. and the evening calls to prayer rang in the night. it was time for the zar to begin. in auntie rosa’s courtyard. in the dark of cairo illuminated by kerosene lamps. in a perimeter decorated with burning candles whose tongues licked the smoky haze of the air. and there was an altar. right over there. stacked with dry fruit. and roasted nuts. and a jug of cool rosewater. they said the fruit and nuts were an offering. one has to keep the demons satisfied. and the aroma of frankincense and oud swirled around us. all ladies in white gallabeyyas and sheer headscarves. and there was a rooster. a red rooster. he squawked to heaven because he knew. and the one they called kodia. SHE. a mystical woman who communed with the spirits. she came in like the queen of sheba in her gallabeyya of royal blue silk. she blinded us with her light. and her gold-capped teeth that glistened in the night. droplets of liquid fire. and the young lady. that one possessed by the demons. she was brought in like a calf to the slaughter. robed in white from neck to ankle like the bride she was to be. before she became the devil’s bride. eyes lined with black kohl. wrists wrapped with gold and silver amulets. hands and feet painted with red henna. and the voices said oh my soul. how my heart aches for her. look at her skin. like fresh milk. ya habibti helwa wi zayy el amar. she’s as beautiful as the moon. and they said after the blood is shed you have to close your eyes. don’t look at her. don’t challenge the spirits. she challenged the spirits and look at her now. malbousa a’ouzou billah. she’s the devil’s bride. and the men came. with a tambourine and a tabla and a flute and a mangour. and they wore long emerald gallabeyyas with red sashes at their waists. and turban-like scarves around their heads. and their kohl-rimmed eyes were like pools of black oil. and SHE. she whispered something. a prayer or an invocation or a spell. poured a handful of powdered incense over the red-hot coals in that incense burner in the corner. and the coals burned orange and the incense sizzled and the smoke curled up into the air. and the music began. doom tikka tik doom tikka tik doom tikka tik and the kodia’s head was an erratic pendulum doom tikka tik doom tikka tik doom tikka tik and the women swayed in a circle around the altar doom tikka tik doom tikka tik doom tikka tik and the dervishes whirled and whirled doom tikka tik doom tikka tik doom tikka tik and their finger cymbals clanged and the flute wailed and the possessed glided. manic eyes. catatonic limbs. beautiful ghost with a face of skin and bones. and i remembered i remembered how we used to climb that mango tree in my grandmother’s garden and jump over the fence to the neighbor’s side and pick her red roses and run like devils were chasing us and i remembered her this girl this demon girl always quiet always quieter than the rest of us always shy and i remembered how one time we’d made her cry told her her brother was retarded and i remembered how one time we’d made her lie told her to run home and tell her mother salma had fallen off a tree and broken her leg but there was a woman. a woman in black. she held the sacrificial rooster by the wings. grabbed the poor creature so he couldn’t even flutter. and she whirled and whirled and whirled. and the rooster whirled like a weathervane. and the music whirled into the night doom tikka tik doom tikka tik doom tikka tik and there were heads that whirled to the rhythm and there were scarves that swirled around shoulders and there was hair that bounced in the air and there was a voice that howled at the moon and there were eyes that rolled back in their sockets and there was spume that spattered from mouths and there were words mumbled in strange tongues and there was a woman who twitched like a snake on the ground and the circle of dancers bubbled like lava and the possessed was lost in the crowd but a wave of dancers ebbed and there she was thin fragile pale. chest heaving. head rolling. black curls twisting. twisting in the air and the voices said somebody support her somebody catch her before she falls and they hovered and reached and pulled back. and the darawish reached up emerald-clad arms and removed their headdresses and their hair fell in gleaming tresses cascading sheets of midnight black and long locks whirled and whirled and whirled and an agonized scream cut the air and the possessed that one with the demons the one we’d played with as children she crumbled to the ground and the music stopped. and the night was silent. and there was an awkward air. in auntie rosa’s courtyard there was an awkward air. and the sacrifice was brought to the kodia. and there was squawking squawking godawful squawking. and SHE. she slipped a knife out of her brass belt. slid it across the rooster’s neck. swift and bold. and the bird jerked once. and the sacrificial blood flowed crimson red on the white marble floor. and they lifted the possessed. brought her to the brew. dipped her hands into it. guided them to her face her hair her body. and the stench of acrid sweat and oxidizing blood hung in the air like a tumid shroud. and they sprinkled her face with rosewater mayya mayya mayya mayya mayya bismillah bismillah bismillah and she opened her kohl-streaked eyes and let out a scream. a scream that made the blood simmer in our bones. and a lady screamed. screamed a scream from the depths of her womb. screamed a mother’s scream and said oh my child why won’t they let you be? and the women rushed to the mother’s side. the mother of the devil’s bride. god help you. allah ma’aki they said. and under their breath they muttered god protect us from all evil. a’ouzou billah min al shaytan al rajeem. and they held up their palms to ward off the spirits. and the mother said when will my child be freed from these demons? must she die so they can be satisfied? and SHE. she said only god in his infinite power can free her. the sacrifice will satisfy the lust of the demons. but the power belongs to god and him alone. and the mother choked. choked on her sobs and said where is he? nothing is working. not the doctors or the psychologists or the sheikhs or the priests. not the bible or the qur’an or the bedouin incantations. my beautiful daughter is dying and where is god. why does he disappear when i beg his help? why is he deaf to a mother’s prayers? and the women said don’t lose your faith. god will deliver her. this is his promise. just believe in his power and your daughter will be spared. but the mother rolled her head up to the heavens. raked her desperate fingernails over her face. looked out at the invincible darkness. and said. i don’t know what to believe anymore.

stigma

 "Dreams of Flying" by George Grie

after they have gone

i am alone with the words

the words they said

the words i heard

the words i imagined

the words i said

the words they heard

or perhaps did not hear

because they were not listening

though they pretended to listen

and in sinks this feeling

i know it so well

like the brown spot

on the inside of my left step

a beauty spot they call it

a mark i say

this feeling of something

this feeling of nothing

this feeling of a wet whip to the brain

this feeling of a white shock to the eye

and then i dream they will go away

not the whips or the shocks

not the words

but them

i dream they will go away forever

that i may rest with the words alone

and so i sit by myself in this darkness

that is broken by an artificial light

that i have allowed

i sit in this room

and the walls grow taller

and wider

and tighter

i sit in this chair

and the colors deepen

and glow

and pool

i sit

and my shallow inkpot becomes a well

i am a diary filled with words

filled to the brim but not overflowed

and yet locked

and the key discarded

and i dream they will return

not the walls or the colors

but them

i dream they will return

that i may think of something unsaid to say

some words with which to pretend a conversation

but why do i wish my words their own imprisonment

and with this distracting thought

the words are scattered

and my face smarts and my eyes sting

and the moment of my collapsing heart threatens

and i am mortified

with shame and humiliation

though i am with my Self

and She is with me

i am stumped

at catching my Self in this weakness

and my eyes want their explosion

but i do not allow it

i do not allow

this involuntary expression

that deforms a face beyond recognition

because i am afraid to cry

even with my Self

because somehow

if

if i should cry

i might lose a measure of pride

as if this measure

whatever its weight or size

can somehow save me

from the stigma

i do not allow

this involuntary expression

and though a measure of pride is retained

something in my heart is heavy

something in my mind is dark

with the

weight size

of this mark

of this stigma

of these tears unshed

but then comes Love

my love for me

because who will love me like i love my Self

and narcissus loved himself

so what of it

only an imbecile does not know

                        he loved the water too

and i wish i could live

and i wish i could die

and i sit by myself in this darkness

that is broken by an artificial light

that i have allowed

i sit in this room this chair

my tears like rocks in my eyes

and outside the moon sits in the sky

and glows like a polished crystal

but only an imbecile does not know

                        the moon does not glow

and my tears will not flow

no imbecile will see me cry

no imbecile will extend

a mocking finger and pretend

to dry my tears

only to lick my agony

and learn how salty my soul is

no imbecile will touch

no imbecile will know

my stigma is mine alone

hidden

like the brown spot

on the inside of my left step

and i sit with it

and it sits with me

and the walls grow taller

and the colors deepen

and my shallow inkpot becomes a well

and both diary and inkpot overflow

this is my infernal pleasure

this is my delicious license

this is my stigma

and mine alone

metastasize

                                             "The Fabulous Racetrack of Death"

                                                                                   by Roberto Matta

it happened again today

i remembered you

though you rarely cross my mind

i don’t know why you did today

cross my mind that is

i think it was the boy that was walking down the hall

with his hairless head bald but not shaved

bald with the sickness that you knew so well

and he walked past me like he didn’t see me

but then he turned around and said hello miss

and i said hello toni

and he smiled that weak smile that he tried so hard to make work

and so i remembered you thierry with your smile

all that time ago

the memories fell on me like warm rain

…

and i remembered the day that it happened

we were all sitting in french lit class discussing l’étranger

and you kept dropping your pencil on the ground on purpose

just to make us laugh

and dr rizk kept turning from the board and telling you to

stop fooling around and fait attention

then she went around to get one of those pointers she loved to use

and you dropped your pencil again

and when you bent down to pick it up that last time

you banged your head on the bottom of your desk that didn’t budge

didn’t make room for less pain
but sat there solid and allowed you to hit it

and you came in after the weekend with a bandage on your head

and we all thought
how odd it is to need a bandage for a minor bang

but that wasn’t the end of that because after a couple of days

you came in with a larger bandage and said

they’d had to shave off some of your hair

right there where the bandage is you said 

they had to shave so they could stitch

but that wasn’t the end of that because after a couple more days

you came in with your whole head shaved
and wrapped in a large dressing

and we all got scared because this is not normal

but that wasn’t the end of that because after a couple more days

you came in with your whole head wrapped

and the bandage was tied all the way around your chin

and you wrote us a note and said

i can’t talk because it makes my head move

and that was when the darkness started to fall on us

our small group of eight in that french lit class and dr rizk the ninth

eight wannabe scholars who got together with their teacher

to read balzac and zola and maupassant for shits and grins

but that wasn’t the end of that because after a couple more days

thierry

you didn’t come back to school

and this happened in early february and dragged into its end

and i remember it because march was coming up
and i kept wondering

will thierry make it to my birthday party

i was young and selfish and thought of my own wants

and i wanted you there to make me laugh like you always did

so i called your maman and she said you weren’t doing well

but that i could visit you in the hospital

hospital i’d said thierry is in the hospital

so i asked my mother to drive me to the hospital
after school the next day

…
and i remembered
...

i remembered in drama class when

we went backstage to read our trojan women script

and work on our blocking and then decided to run off

and get a pizza on rd 9 and so we went

running and running and running with the wind in our hair

and the devil in our blood

and caught a cab right outside the school gate

and put together our coins so we could pay the driver

and went to get our pizza
and didn’t have enough money to each get our own
but had enough to buy one pizza and share it

one slice for each of us but back then one slice was enough

and we were all skinny as a rail and food was just food

but it wasn’t even about the pizza thierry

it was about the thrill we shared at having skipped class

and knowing we’d be in trouble ‘cause we’d already been seen by

mr marshall’s assistant as we ran off campus
while she was coming in

and she’d given us a look like i’ve caught you

and we’d looked through her like she was the air

and we’d laughed out loud ‘cause we knew we were getting it

so what the hell might as well live it up now

it wasn’t like we were going to be in less trouble

if we were gone for only half the class

…

and i remembered in french lit class
when you’d climbed up on a chair

while dr rizk was out in the hall with another teacher

and you’d set the clock above her board ahead 10 minutes

so dr rizk had dismissed us 10 minutes early

and we’d all exploded with laughter

and fell over each other as we ran down the hall

but then one of us had had a change of heart

and said this isn’t right and that one was you thierry

the very one who had changed the clock
and we’d all gone back to class and admitted our deed to dr rizk
and she’d cried and said

why would you do this to me what did i ever do to deserve this

and we’d all been mortified with guilt and gone up to dr rizk
one by one

and hugged her and said we were sorry we’d never do it again

…

and i remembered the countless times
we’d gotten together to study for those
ridiculous vocab tests dr stein gave us every week

75 words a week plus etymology plus define in your own words

plus two sentences for each word plus bla bla bla

…

and this happened

…

it happened

…

your maman and papa had waited twelve years for you to arrive

twelve years of tests and hopes and shattered dreams

as you had told us

and then i was conceived and then i was born and then i became

as you had told us

and maman and papa were the happiest people in the world

and that had been the end of that story

at that point

but now i was in this hospital room

sickly blue like the color of tired veins beneath parchment skin

and looking down at you

so weak and helpless in your bed that was not your bed

and listening to you as you said

they came and took me in this big ambulance nevine

and watching as you licked your brick-hard lips moist

the lights were crazy nevine

red and blue and red and blue and spinning and spinning

and your maman was sitting on a small chair by the window

her head in her hand

and the door opened and in came the doctor a doctor another doctor

and one of them asked me to leave thierry can you imagine the gall

but your maman said it’s okay she can stay

and the doctor said i’m sorry to inform you madame

but it appears the tumor is beginning to metastasize rapidly

and i’ll tell you this

my mother had made me read the fucking dictionary

every day from the day i was seven until i was seventeen

and in dr stein’s class we’d learned 75 vocab words a week

and even with my dictionary reading and dr stein’s vocab lists

i still didn’t know what the hell metastasize meant

so i reached my hand in my back pocket

and pulled out a pen and scribbled the word

on the inside of my hand because thierry

i didn’t know what the fuck that word meant

but i did know that word sounded pretty damn sinister

and tumor

who had said anything about a tumor

these doctors must be in the wrong room

but no

it seemed

somehow

that small bang on the desk

had triggered some dormant something in your head

or at least that’s what the doctor said

triggered and dormant

and i’d never heard the word trigger 
used outside of the context of a gun

he used the word trigger which

i can no longer hear without thinking of you thierry

and when i realized

when i realized

i remembered
...

all those countless times our small group of eight had held hands

like children

out on our school’s green soccer field under the cairo sun

and bounced around in a circle singing

sur le pont d’avignon

on y danse on y danse

sur le pont d’avignon

on y danse tous en rond

and we’d bounced around

high school seniors going on kindergarten

but i wanted to know what that word meant
metastasize

so i got home and pulled out my worn-out webster’s

with years of my graffiti all over it
i got home and voluntarily picked up that dictionary
and i looked up that word that
the doctor had let slip from his mouth
so swiftly so smoothly
metastasize 
and when i read the definition my mouth fell wide open 
like i was catching flies 
and there you were in your hospital bed that was not your bed 
thinking i don’t know what if you were even thinking anymore

…

and this happened

…

it happened

…

i came back to see you in your hospital room
that was not your room

and you looked at me and said

i want to fly to my silver castle in the sky

and i said

why not a golden castle

it seems a more becoming color don’t you think

and you said

no it’s too bright and in your face

a silver castle suits me just fine

and my heart went doink pinch bleed

because fuck

i was seventeen and you were eighteen
and death was not in our world

or not supposed to be

nor were those needles they had pinned
to your arms and your legs

or those tubes with
clear liquids going in and colored liquids coming out

or those horrifying doctor statements like

sometimes we have to poke several times before finding a vein

and i did not understand why

for the life of me

someone who had a tumor in his head should be
poked all over and bled

and i did not understand why

those doctors answered most of the questions they were asked with

i don’t know

or why the priest that your maman brought over
to pray for you said

i don’t know

or why the holistic healer who came with oils and crystals said

i don’t know

or why you couldn’t come to school anymore

or go swimming anymore

or come to my birthday party

i mean you had a tumor and we all knew you were dying

but why couldn’t they let you die doing what you wanted to do

…

and this happened

…

it happened

…

i came to visit you one day and you were all but gone

laying there with a tube sticking out of your chest

and tubes stuck in your arms and in your legs

and a strange looking pump stuck on your head

does it hurt i said

yes you said

do you cry i said

yes you said but not in front of maman

then

are you afraid of me nevine

do i scare you now

and

just a little i said i’ve never known anyone who… you know…

is dying you asked

yeah i said

i’m tired nevine you said

i’ll let you rest then

and i went

but not before clutching your hand between both of mine

and you asked when i die will it hurt

and it was my turn now to say i don’t know

because i didn’t know

and you asked me when i die where will i go

and i said i don’t know

and you asked me will they bury me underneath the ground

and i said i don’t know

but then

didn’t you say you wanted to fly to your silver castle in the sky

and I cried and you said don’t cry nevine

and you said my name as it should be said

avec un accent aigu sur le premier ‘e’

and i held your hand still and prayed

like i’d only prayed once before

…

and this happened

…

it happened

…

my mama was on her way to hospital to deliver my little sister

and i made a promise that if my mama came back alive if if…

and i had never finished the prayer…

but my mama did come back alive
with my healthy baby sister in tow

and i’d never given that unfinished promise a second thought

but now i prayed for you thierry
while this cancer metastasized and killed you

i prayed and said you were so young and so sweet and
so intelligent

and why you

but it was like my prayer was
falling on deaf ears and blind hearts

even as i was saying it

and it went unanswered

and you were taken away quietly and gently

on a warm and sunny day of may

23 days before we were all supposed to
graduate in the shadow of the sphinx

you were taken away

and i don’t think of you often thierry

but when i do it is always with a memory of your very blue eyes

and the cairo sun shining through your golden hair

and your childlike laughter

and us holding hands

you and me and jéhane and sandrine and
karim and hervé and sherine and tareq

and us going around in a circle on that green soccer field

in the middle of what should be an arid desert

holding hands and singing

sur le pont d’avignon

and i don’t know thierry
if you and i would know one another today

if you were still alive

or if we would be in touch

or if i would remember you or you would remember me

but i do know i remember you every now and then

when i see a boy walking down the hall

with his hairless head bald but not shaved

bald with the sickness that you knew so well

and he walks past me like he doesn’t see me

but then he turns around and says hello miss

you come into my head

you fall on me like warm rain

and when you do i feel that doink pinch bleed in my heart

and i tear up

but then i smile because how could i think of you and not smile

thierry

it would not be possible

and how could i think of you and not sing

we sing 

like children 

who will 

forever sing

and stay

children

forever