I have so many tears. So many tears.
The Back of my Throat
There is a slight burning chafing at the back
of my throat where this knowledge resides
somewhere between tear ducts and my lips that purse.
I cannot ask you so much. What should we call my newborn daughter, how to tell
a good watermelon from one that is dry,
just how to sweeten the faces in adversity, and why your eyes
remain bottomless green ether, unbounded by
words. Does he love me enough and
for how long, and maybe you can yell at me to get
off the couch to the gym, we could possibly
cry- together- at the endings of films we will forget, having remembered
nothing but that your curls were close to mine,
and you, thirty years older, would drop the same tears,
and sip tea with mint like we were friends, like this was ordinary family. You would hold me against
divorce papers, and hysterectomies,
tell me this shade of red hair dye makes me appear a washed out
tart, or encourage me to bead more shine into
these robes, or maybe teach me the patience it takes to
carve eggplants into the satiated bodies of
our guests. You could drive my sister cross
states to hang Christmas lights, with no one but
Fairouz and all the Palestinian spirits bequeathed us, for company. You could ring doorbells
like it was no miracle, and usher in the light of all the hidden corners of the world.
You could string together ropes of my broken pieces, wrap
a heart with hands that sculpt birth, make a unit one
of the ways the world breaks me.
I miss you, in all the memories that never happened,
in all the mornings that could have been
a future, in all the words
you never got to say,
in the faces of strangers who did not know to love you. In the countless
mundane moments where only
you would have sufficed.
Everyday, the knowledge burning at the back of my throat,
searches for doorways of forgotten private
languages, hunting the one symbol
that could summon