The Woman in Our House, and: Asmahan, and: Listen

The Woman in Our House

I remember a portraitin my parents’ house—an Arab womanin orange, her dress aflame,her feet bareon the leopard-print rug,a filigree window to her left.No one knew

who she was. My dad had bought herbecause she looked like Mom—blueeyes, white skin, short wavy hair.My mom loved how her bodyseemed sated; “All ablossom,”she’d say, “like the lilies to her right.”

Dad bought lilies once, and mom tossedthe flowers away, saying you can’twrap a wound with petals.Decades later, I found out

that woman was an Andalusian poet.Her name, Wallada, meantshe would have many children. But she didn’t.She opened literary salons, embroideredher lines on her sleeves, nevermarried. When I told Mom, asked herwhere the portrait was, she cried,said she’d thrown her awaya long time ago.

Asmahan

These streets are littered with little girls who carryAsmahan’s eyes in their faces. This one has a voicelike feathers. She tells me the coffee shop owner allows herto sell roses here every other day. I go to schoolin the morning. My father takes mefrom coffee shop to coffee shop at night. He’s waitingfor me outside. She says she’s memorizedAsmahan’s songs. Do you want to listen?

When I tell her Asmahan was born on a ship, travelledfrom Izmir to Beirut to Haifa to Cairo,she smiles. Perhaps one day we could walkto Vienna. Asmahan says it’s like paradise.The waiters pat her on the head, give her biscuits.The woman on the next table says, Smallah,eyes like candlelight. She puts the biscuitsin her pocket, saves them for her brotherwho has lost his mind, haram.

I don’t tell her Asmahan drowned.The roses sleep on the floor, she singsinta inta imta—you you whenwill you know I love you.

This poem is written for refugees.On the facing page, “Listen” was written for Tripoli, Lebanon, after the explosions thattargeted two mosques there in August 2013.

Listen

You’re telling yourself he’s fine. He didn’t go to the mosque today.  Again, your mother screams. Your father is running up,    is down, the whole town is down. You call,      praying. You call (the goddamn line),      try to forget your brother might be—        God. You run to the balcony;          You heard that? Is it?            You shake. Again              a boom;              That—                hear?              Did you?            It explodes,          the mosque, this Friday,          the laundry, the domes of        boys’ arms, the sumac. Noon      flows, ebbs. The Chiclets in the street.    Viscous, this August heat, the city, the day.  The sea, still. The children, the figs almost bursting.Not even gods could, who could have possibly—I mean listen.

Not even gods could, who could have possibly—I mean listen:  the sea, still; the children; the figs almost bursting,    viscous—this August heat; the city, the day      flows, ebbs; the Chiclets in the street        boys’ arms, the sumac, noon,          the laundry, the domes of          the mosque, this Friday            it explodes              did you                hear                that?              A boom,            you shake again,          You heard that? Is it?        God. You run to the balcony      try to forget your brother might be      praying, you call, the goddamn line    is down, the whole town is down, you call  again, your mother screams, your father is running up,you’re telling yourself he’s fine. He didn’t go to the mosque today.