Eight Angels

A poem about my time in Jordan, where I learned a teensy bit of Arabic, a smattering of history, some great recipes, and a great deal about hospitality, generousity, and honor. This little girls, and one other named "Islama" (she deserves a poem of her own) were my first teachers in Jordan, but not my last.

There is a line of history in mine

That does not grieve me or make me proud—

Information that I cannot carry,

Lengthy contracts that I will not sign.

Do not carve my name anywhere

In the hills of Jordan I sat resting

Exchanging names with eight little girls.

 “Gazelle,”  “Light,” “Good Tidings,” “Sweet Water”

Then mine, just “Stubborn”—a sad vesting. 

Do not carve my name anywhere

Incredulous they inferred old pain.

Sorrowful silence on the long stair;

Then Huma, “the bird who brings joy”

Smiled, “We will name you again”

Do not carve my name anywhere

Looking beyond salt, sweat and sunburn

Noor leaned in “Call her for beauty, yes?”

They all nodded, thinking hard, ready

To bestow a gift I did not earn

Do not carve my name anywhere.

Many names suggested and cast out—

Not good enough to mark my fate. That night

Eight smallish Irbid Angels named me

“Hooriya,” so this gift came about:

A name I can carve anywhere.

Cold Calls

I missed where cruelty dwelt

In the last line to the left

Of the face that I kissed

And the place where

He did not care

If I suffered

For my kisses there.

In the way the stars spun

I neglected to trace

Variations of no, zeroed

Tomorrows

And silence

Hearing only the surprise

Of my own tender cries

In the promise of courage

I did not notice Retreat

And in the knowledge

Of birds

And the Fall of ravens

In mating flight

I lost sight

I have only myself to blame

Blinded by the flame

April Fools

 

An April Fool waits too long, believes too

Long the previous month’s kisses

Spinning new moon after new moon rue

And the limb enjambment’s jigsaw

Perfection of the abdominal slope

And hope

The April Fool believes in rising again

At the stroke repeated, fears no flood,

And sees the turning of now to then

Made less sad, breath by quickening

Breath, lightening this side of the skies,

Then cries

Would the April Fool wait on for scent

Alone, a breath of sandalwood or sweat,

The hollow where the neck is bent

And the sugar rush biting not so gently

Back, and still set aside pride,

You decide

The other April Fool lets go, lets Not

Untie the knot, one kiss being like unto

Another after all, and why repeat the plot

So peak blindness pleasure built up thrice

Just leaks away in weeks of rain

No pain

Did we say goodbye, such an April Fool

Am I; to say farewell, were you an April Fool

As well?  If saying “April Fools” could set

It right, this pair of fools could make a straight.

Oh, why did those kisses came so late,

Curse Fate.

Once Bitten -- a sonnet

Signs of passion and internal bleeding

Include dizziness, weakness, chills,

Rapid breath, and lightheadedness leading

Sadly toward a hemmoragic spill.

Count: March thirteen back to January six,

That makes nine weeks waiting to hear you ask.

If I’d held back, would that have changed the mix?

Well, withholding is such a faithless task.

You know I wear my heart outside my breast

While the bleeding-out remains internal.

I speak what I feel, that's the tender test.

Kisses and truth trump regrets eternal.

And though the bleeding now should be a sign,

Truth to tell, I found your kisses very fine.