Lines in Moonlight

I’m making my speculative poetry debut in Strange Horizons!

This is a huge breakthrough for me. I’ve been afraid of writing poetry for so long, brought on during a traumatic grad school experience.

SH’s poetry editor was so kind and supportive in their acceptance letter.

That you know well

Is the star of consequence.

Every child will know their dear stars.

By heart they will touch them

In worlds unknown:

Done with silence that slaughters

And done with asking kindred to be less.

The bangs of coins

Hang across her brows

Anemones bloom

On her keffiyeh

Seven chains of silver

Taweez

Seven chains of silver

On her keffiyeh

Anemones bloom

Hang across her brows

The bangs of coins

From within the ekphrasis

Of gleaming bronze,

Ivory, and carbuncles.

Impossible wings,

Wheels of flame,

Enigmatic shadows

The god is the city.

Immortal and ageless

It accepts no prayers.

Its sacrifices: lineages.

Its beneficence

Its malice

She has calibrated the cords,

Cogs and weights of my body.

Composed my essence of

Bone and shell. My purpose

Is to be poetry.”

The alchemical demiurge

Is pleased by her creation.

Torches light the way. Beware

Black dogs. Lost in the woods.

Hell has no fury…. A woman feeds

Turn a cold eye On life, on death.

Smoke clears. Return to my tree

Just embers. Chiming bracelets.

Like they used to. These days, they

Are all tendrils of latticework

Echoing vines and leaf.

Bands of stained glass photo

Voltaic cells drape the nursery.

They drink up the sun, shelter

Blossoms and wet green things

I think of your freedom.

We are free somewhere

Worlds inside of worlds.

The sun rises, and we soar

Henna stained and old.

Dark hair is turned, formed

Into architecture and crown

Adorned with silver.

Zaghareet fills the room

When joy flows out of them

Seeing the monster she

Has become. She rises

From her tree, the Bride,

The alchemist considers her work

Of sub-creation: its expertly honed

Mechanisms. The sacred Names

Interlaced in flowing script

Throughout the body inlaid

With previous woods and gems.

The sun drops into the Mediterranean.

There’s a scent of agar

As the being stirs.

Cannot be bought

At the perfumer’s souq.

Come, meet me at the Jaffa gate,

Making bread for her.

She sat by the door

With ashes on her head.

The wall behind her collapsed

The water in the stream dried up

The trees became barren

The animals shunned the place

Bedouin wept for them all.

For the place made desolate

In my chiming bracelets

Crown of coins a wealth

Of silver decking every inch?

The embroidery of my thobe

Reveals strips of Syrian silks

Just a tantalizing glimpse

Between the folds.

Come to my tree, beloved.

And I will consume you

So so sweetly.

Doesn’t burn. Books with hearts

Immortal and ageless,

Stories of djinn and water demons,

Saints and amulets, survive the arson.

In this poem, Palestine has archives

Intact, precious, shared.