Syncopated

been away from blogging. sorting through heaviness. shifting priorities.
been wanting movement. to pack my things and go. the rhythm become too familiar.
then i remembered what a friend said,
bring movement to where you at. No need to go elsewhere. word.
but what's movement without sore limbs?

words no longer bring comfort. i need touch. (the good kind)
he said, let's make this work. cuz we in sync, flaca.
but no poetry here. so I walked.
plenty of words. still no touch.
(the good kind, I mean)

been writing. to watch pen on paper.
holding on to it tight. this pen. this paper. these words.
for what, she asks.
a different flow, I say.
for love.

but who will kiss my hands
hold my tired feet?
who will walk with me
touch me good love
me off beat?

Grandma's Hands



Thank you N for reminding me of this.

Stopover in Rome

On my way to Toronto. Leaving behind pieces of me. Scattered across miles of broken earth. Healing began with grandmother's grave, then the desert. The new year began with home. It also began with death. Muharram, the Shia' month of mourning. For the martyrdom of Imam Hussein. In his memory. Self flagellation. Blood. And then came the atrocity in Gaza. More blood.

I arrived at the airport in Rome. Dislocated. My heart sore. My thoughts with family I left behind, and the people of Gaza. I went through an intense security check (shirt lifted up to my bra, his hands touching my bare skin). I got to my gate only to find out there was a 3 hour delay, and a connecting flight from Tel Aviv joining us. I sat and waited. Watching tanned bodies fill the area. Conversations about biblical history and homeland echoed around me. An old man showed another photos of his trip to the Dead Sea. Proud. The beauty of home. His home. Their home. I felt like throwing up. And I did. I got out of the bathroom stall, and an older Arab woman asked if I was alright. Alhamdulillah, too much traveling, I said. We walked back to our gate, in silence. All around us the weight of injustice, of dislocations, sore limbs, death.

I eventually made it back to Toronto, minus my (lost) luggage, with a heaviness on my back and in my heart. My thoughts broken. Scattered. Life continues, for some of us. Work. Eat. Sleep.

Still the heaviness remains.

Where does resistance begin? When does privilege end? Miles away from death zones some of us call home. Miles away from exploding limbs. Endless bleeding.

In this new year, where does our resistance begin?