An Arab Woman Blues , December 30, 2010

I just spent a whole hour giving birth to a poem
so called poem
a few lines
wrenched from my guts
with the forceps of a Condi Rice
propelled from my womb
with phosphorus labor pangs

My connection to the outside world
died on me
I lost my poem
my few lines
from a final chapter
from a long lost
forgotten book...

My connection died on me
like others died on me
slumping like pieces of wood
in my arms
charcoal brown
a withered dried leaf
in Autumn
blue, a Summer sky
pastel pale
budding flowers in Spring
white as a snow flake
a full moon
in a crispy cold
Winter night.

My connection died on me
this is not the first time
me who wanted
to write heroic epics
made of magical numbers and codes
made of lost dwellings
and secret rites
of an ancient people.


I lost my lines
the lines of a final chapter
from a never ending story...
This is my final chapter
a few sentences
from a poem betting
on connections...

This is my final chapter
from a long love story
a romance
with ghosts
where lovers
meet in graves,
erect tomb stones
in each other's names...

This is my final chapter
a graffiti of Freedom
sprayed on brick walls
dividing you
dividing me,
dividing me.

Plastered on my words
drowning my voice
cheap posters
images
of chadors and unshaven men
with yellowed teeth
yellowed like the book
am holding in my hand
the long lost book...


This is my final chapter
my final cry
my final tear.


This is my final chapter
my Love
time has come
to bury
you.