Dima Hilal

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ghaflah—the sin of forgetfulness

born by the mediterranean

our mothers bathe us in orange-blossom water

olive trees and cedars

strain to give us shade

we come to america where they call our land the East

meaning different/dark/dirty

we soon forget

our grandmothers combed hair like ours

we wish our hair blonde our eyes and skin light

we know barbie

looks better than scheherazade

we think french makes us sophisticated so

we greet each other with bonjour instead of salaam

proud of our colonizerıs tongue

we forget the Qurıan sings in arabic



when we arrived

our fingernails pierced the palms of our hands

we stared at pictures of our children

eye sockets carved out by rubber bullets

on the 10 oıclock news our brothers and sisters spit up blood and teeth

and CBS declared them ³terrorists²



now we turn away from bruises and broken bones

body counts and funerals

we know we cannot help anyway

we forget we once stood on the same ground

they die on

we look for the arabia packaged by the west

we escape into clubs to watch

blonde bellydancers named jasmine

sashay almost naked

we eat pasty hummous at eight dollars a plate

and tell each other

how much we miss our home




Cairo


Barbara Streisand's voice drifts

over the back seat of the cab

two o'clock in the morning

my head is pressed against

smooth glass


I stare at the night outside

sapphire spilling over buildings

balconies dripping with shirts

and sheets drying


Beneath the laundry,

below the shadows of the sleeping,

cafes glow, tables strewn with coffee cups

and backgammon games

old men smoking sheeshah


Cairo is a maze of streets

kissing the Nile

stretching half-asleep

tossing with restless dreams,

waiting for the sun to rise

 

Dima Hilal

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