On summer and the waking hours

mornings awake i found myself writing letters in the air, under my breath telling my secrets to the ghosts from last year.waiting for sunlight i’d pass the missing hours,pointing to the ceiling and with my fingerdrawing skylines and inescapable towers. this time last year I was sleeping in Kusadasi,and the year before that it was Venice.Back… Continue reading On summer and the waking hours

on the weight of salt

out there on the muggy shores of the dead sea,I felt the ground shake and move beneath me. out there in black mud and heavy air,salt dissolved and itched and tangled my hair. I went there to be moved and out in the desert,Pangaea herself seemed to tremble with hurt. With purpose I fled to… Continue reading on the weight of salt

on windsheilds

we sit in metal traps:we feel safe,having guarded ourselves with vinyl and glass. to keep the forests alive,we set fire to the yellow fieldsand every summer instead of warmthit’s just heat the fire yields.we feel safe in metal trapsspeeding along behind plates of glass,lying to ourselves with safety straps.

on the royal jordanian, new york to amman

the plane lands in fields arid and emptyred in the south, and everywhere dusty, and the dead sea holds its breath, bellows under Pangaea’s plates,welcomes me home again. with every landing my stomach braced,dusty nostalgia revisited,my silly hope misplaced: the fields forget me, and I forget to forgive it,assuming always that my land also sought… Continue reading on the royal jordanian, new york to amman