Four of stained glass and stars
all leftglance beyond ratio or air,
thin as tissue but strong

as a pastel visa; fated curves
guide your hand,voices drag you
into mud and steal the day.

one of my daughter's young friends
confided a blessed event last summer
I decided to make the bundle of joy
a quilt to keep forever

I cut the blocks out
in October

the baby made her appearance
in December
the blocks haven't sewed themselves
together yet

maybe soon
the family is traveling south
for the summer
an internship

hopefully I will be inspired
to do the sewing soon

the other morning I woke to a commotion
a bird got in the house
and the cat found it
gato got a few good licks in
Anna locked him in the living room
and we encouraged the bird
out the kitchen door

later that night
when I got home from the fort
I found a colleague of the black bird
door nail dead in the upstairs hallway
black claw feet sticking straight up

I hoped it was a different bird.
Not the one we saved.
But what method to my madness
that one bird was worth more
than the other?

a little poem came and perched
on my night stand
last night late
it sang the newest song
I've heard
in months and years

I thought it would wait
hang around
until I got ready to write it

but it flew far
away

on good days
I carry a trash bag
around the yard
and pick up messes
others have left

I have a hole in my foot
where I stepped on a nail
and my hands are torn
my shoulder
is complaining loudly

but it is close to
growing time
my windowsills are filled
with dirt covering seeds

a few more fires
to burn the brush
and my neighbors
should be prouder of me

I
He was intoxicated
by the scent of coffee
dancing in the morning
to his mother’s humming.
II
Then a blacksmith - his father -
taught him how to hammer
form out of chaos
in the muddle of force
and a sweaty anvil.
III
Now if he wished to see
the sunness of the sun
and the greenness of the tree
he would summon the image
of Fatma - an Arab maiden
who was once Berber,
to come write on his face
with her soothing finger:
“Salam, my anguished lover.”
IV
When green-eyed Fatma comes
the wreaths of coffee
Would come with her,
writing in the air;
and all the songs of history
would come marching too,
in battle array,
like an army dressed
in civilian clothing
for a dance in Rio.
V
Fatma’s hair –
a still cascade
of light goldness,
a tide of watery fire,
a flight motionless
of a millon birds who
sing in tongues
and laugh
to the stone unlettered
of his fidgety cenotaph.

© LazharBouazzi, Carthage, TUN