Hedy Habra

Topography

Sometimes I think my face is a map,

each line a faint record of hidden scars,

of what I’ve seen or felt. My skin retains

traces of every fleeting breeze, of drifting

snowflakes, remembers the warmth

of noonday sun, the salty trickle of sorrow

mixed with raindrops, and even the slightest

shiver, the music of light melting down my cheeks.

An imprint remains of the faces

whose gaze lingered over my face

with fingers on the tip of their words,

or outlined my features with fingers

weighed down with words. I often see

that other face beneath the one looking

at me in the mirror, swelling with recollections,

unraveling all my senses.

First published by Cimarron Review

From The Taste of the Earth (Press 53 2019)

To Amal

     Because your name means hope

How can one think of better

days when streets

swarm

with armed men,

their uniforms

changing

with

the drift of war,

their faces the same,

their eyes, your son’s eyes.

Amal, your name means hope,

yet years

go by, darkening

days with violent ink,

night’s pulse

resounding

through splattered walls,

treacherous alleys.

And what’s left

of your sweet name,

when deafened

by the sound of anger,

you dream you’re lost in Beirut’s

neighborhoods,

in search

of a way home

in the midst

of rubble,

faceless gunmen

check your ID

for a Cross or a Crescent,

at every intersection.

Unable to withhold your boy’s finger

from the trigger,

you lie,

your nightmare, a faint echo

of raging battles.

First published by Mizna Literary Review. Nominated for a Pushcart Prize by Glass Lyre Press: Collateral Damage Anthology.

From The Taste of the Earth (Press 53 2019)

Face à Face

      After Flying Blind by Jaclyn Alderete

When with eyes closed, I face the mirror of desolation, I see myself

as a dove fluttering in slow motion like a still mirage while I walk the

desert dunes, wondering where I’d last seen the scarce palm trees still

erect by the smothered tents where all the ones I’ve ever loved are

now buried. I search for ashes shrouded in sand, and only see

through half-open lids feathers the color of my hair, lidless eyes

staring at their mirrorless reflection, lips pursed in triangular silence,

and oh, yes, how can I omit those metallic blue shades making us all

one, woman and fowl, in love and loss?

First published by The Bitter Oleander

From Under Brushstrokes (Press 53 2015)