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by Annie Spratt via Unsplah

your face
and my face
our faces in each other’s hands
everything is haunted in us
the seas, the trees, the oceans
the fragments of the trapped eagles
flapping wings behind our ears
the lakes, the grains of people
the forgetting, the leaving, the loving
the making of things
the circles in the water, the darkness at the bottom of a house
the slender pines
the bleakness of the last light in the cold
a butterfly breathing for fourteen days
a body of an ant running quickly towards a tree
and from a tree to the sky
bears and wolves, frozen deer and the deer trapped
in the mud of the dry river
the aching of a flower under the gasping wind, wind coughing
like a sick man at the verge of falling into another man
the man…

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Brandon Mattingly via Unsplash

there is a beast inside us
and we are the shoeless beasts
wearing nothing but our furs
and teeth
clawing at life.

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Image by Pierre Leverrier via Unsplash

the five petaled oleanders

soon there will be nothing left of me
not a bone, not a piece of skin or strand of hair lost in your hand
the olive trees, the orange trees, the cypresses
will keep birthing fruits and leaves and throwing shades
and I will be resting somewhere far
covered by a foreign land and the black bird
will be singing a morning song
and the sky will carry my eyes to you

before I go
before my hands cease to be hands
and my legs forget what it means to walk
I will give you all that is left of me
the yearning for the shimmering water
the hunger for the fertile lands
oh! the lands shifting, the earth sipping through my teeth
I will give you
my crumbled youth, the grains of it
my face ruined with grimace, my rounded belly where our children used to live
I will give you
the softness of my whisper
hold you with sheer force
all your loveliness I will hold, all your sorrow
and when I am gone
you will wash your face with the mountain water
and not forget how I inhabited you, how I nested behind your ear
how I loved you. …

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by Mujibur Rohman via Unsplash

covered by your hands and feet
blowing off dead fruit flies from apples and mangoes
in your father’s kitchen
glasses standing in rows like transparent legionnaires
sharping bayonets
eating with your hands, sleeping with your heart
homeless dog, rail tracks, ruined house, needles
next to a field
overrun with wild poppies
rooted deep with their mouths wide open
unsettled and ready
to eat the blueness of my skies
to utter words
whisper consolation in the fat grass

the dirt of the earth
the permanence
solitary spiders quivering
my mother cutting a pomegranate in four, even halves
the first that I have ever tasted
seeds spilling out from your mouth like stones
the splendidness of your face
the pale moon of it
our bodies twisted and bent on my floor
my impatient legs and your hard manhood in the garden
of my overripe, heavy, tender pears
the molasses that I licked off your tongue
when you planted yourself inside my…

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by M.T ElGassier via Unsplash

I am half Arab
which country is my mother
which country is my father
the one that raised me
or the one that
I secretly long for
inhabiting the olive skin
of my father
with all its tragedy
and the inner splendour
of his people
they are my people too
not knowing
that I am theirs

it is
the unspoken sense of loss
as how can you lose
a heart that never had a chest to beat in
a bird stuck in a window
half open
to the sky

where were you
to teach me about your homeland
how was I supposed to know
your land
your kingdom over there
gets so hot
that the spit thickens
in your mouth
and your eyes sweat
watermelons are so ripe
that they burst open with black seeds
like pregnant…

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by Jonathan Weiss via Unsplash

They asked me to lay on the bed. It felt alien and cold. The new doctor that had just entered the room and Dr Aman walked over to me. We were all together now, enclosed in a small, circular space. The curtains were drawn close to each other. I instinctively raised my legs up and spread them resting the soft place under my knees on the metal frame. Drops of my blood slowly and treacherously started staining the paper sheets underneath me. Dr Aman carefully inserted her gloved hand inside me. I moaned in pain and tensed my legs.

“Please try to breathe and release the muscles. Please, I know it hurts, but I need to see what is happening here.” Dr Aman spoke softly. …

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by Mike Wilson via Unsplash

when you hit a woman
you take away her innocence
I thought you should know that
because you did not know this before
and when one day you will create
a daughter
think about her as I am someone’s daughter too
and if one day you will create a son
read this to him

you said you never hit me
because your hand did not curl into a fist
but you have pulled my hair and they were from my mother
and you have squeezed my throat in the air thinking
that this is the way to strip a woman not of her clothes
but of a lucid tongue that lives in her mind
and that tongue is at least three generations old
you must have been a fool
to think
that you can crush a force like that with a slap in the face
or by pushing my body on to a wall
throw me not on the bed of flowers
but a hard floor
my love for you died years ago
stomped by a herd of elephants that you were moulding at night
from a dark…

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Nuno Alberto via Unsplash

I saw two people in the rain
her face was small and wet
and he held it in his hands
and they laughed
it was
as if the street was on fire
but how could it be on fire
drenched with water
they were beautiful.

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Kamila Zguzi by Natalia Nykiel

there are oceans
beyond the sands
there is an island
where the palm trees
where her heart lives
in between the greenness
of the wet leaves
in the juice dripping from the red watermelon
two steps into the morning light
your beautiful mouth
full of berries
my lungs are filling up
with rain
my lungs are filling up
with roses
in a wake of a hurricane
she is made
out of seeds
and flowers
paradise birds
and orange sunsets
fresh gardens
blue oceans washiing over your feet
white sands
diamondssapphires, rubies, amethysts
and all things rare
you can feel
all the things
to which her body is rooted to
grass, oak bark, water
the organic machinery
the perpetual tranquility
of the small rain
squeezed from the clouds

smells like petrichor.


Kamila Zguzi

I write when I feel, which is pretty much all the time.

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