i haven’t forgotten
mar charbel is the scary one
resting a bloody hand on your
child’s shoulder when you
forget to keep a promise
clears his throat before you can
step out on your word
stays dressed in black
once ate his own smile but
i like him most.
he still hums
to the pulse
in my wrist.
i kept him with his contemporaries
all beads on a string, my own congregation.
the plastic confining him chipped at the corner, a reminder
of his ability to dart between pulse & phosphene
while i slept. the string loose, then broken
he stays compact,
like a syllable
even while religion fades
into muscle memory.
call this faith, finally. and the body, a prayer
to feel guilty about whispering into the night.
warm by the window.
still. i am everything
i’ve ever believed in even if
i don’t believe it anymore.
part of me always
chipped at the corner
give me the flute & sing
after fairuz & gibran
origin is an apple jam jarred to make wine,
put in the ground but always comes up vinegar
when picked at the skin of where the earth
spit you out before you were you
but after the flute started playing.
hands are the etymology of prayer
i turn mine slowly in the morning sunlight
through my window. i watch the rings hug
my fingers. my knuckles hairs grow back
slower now, but i still have this inheritance
from a man who sang to his fig trees
and raised his voice at a woman sprung
from the shadow of a tree full of switches
and all i can ever do is brew coffee for the
mild mannered and write stories
that don’t belong to me
i come from love that didn’t always know the right way.
a cracked seed aware of its cyanide. bruised fruit.
preserves or vinegar, depending on the light.
his body pushes up tomatoes
wherever her hands waver this too,
a type of apology i listen for
until that flute in me stops.