I.
when she saw the hazy picture on the screen,
dark grays, some blacks, a little white,
she didn't understand until the soft, chubby brown finger
pointed at a speck, a freckle.

how can I?

the soft worn leather seat whimpered
when the expanse of body gripping fabric
clung to the body they housed, and
the nurse reached for the girl's small sweaty hand.
they closed their eyes and prayed.

the adjacent room was a museum of curiously tiny things.
she slowly considered each item in her sojourn,
finally selecting delicate knit slippers, for little feet.
in this tired brick building reality seemed less real.

II.
back home, her mother threw a chair
when Mavel pointed at her stomach and smiled shyly.
when she presented the shoes with trembling hands,
hoping this small measure would appease the anger,
always worst at first--maternal snakebite,
mother glowered and showed her ****** fangs.

III.
the lights drew her, like fireflies twinkling moment to moment,
the icicle bulbs flashing as the wind blew strands wildly
on dark night trees, rooted firmly in familiar soil.

cotton candy clouds surrounded her small thin lips;
the lingering bits crystallized on a pale pointed chin.
as she discarded the unwanted cardboard stem,
its use immediately forgotten in a pile of related *******,
she saw him.

she saw him. and she ran. frayed tongues flapping on her sneakers.
breathless, heart pumping, he came into focus.

by the house of mirrors. reaching for her hand--
not my hand. her hand?

her fingers slipped from her mouth and found their home,
on her warm belly,
suddenly quiet.

blood trailing down her thighs,
a droplet stroking a pure white shoe:
welcomed refuse.

I want to love you, but I'm afraid to feel
the hollow space in my chest--hallowed ground.
I want to kiss your lips and warm your skin
with the vibrations pulsing through your sense of
touching me where I can't reach
in that cavern housing my thoughts,
the "will they see me? will they want to know"
that I cover myself in dog hair disarray,
that I stand with the fridge door open, chewing shriveled carrots;
hoping to shrink what is soft, weak, feminine, emotional,
dangerous.

but you never respond. you match my arched eyebrows
and my tired dry skin, stretched like saran wrap,
keeping my stench our secret for now.

a mirror never lies,
so why doesn't she love me
as I love her.

before I can write, I have to stop
and consider the new nail growth
that has pushed nail paint further up
as my tiny talons become more worthy of their name.

earlier, I pointed at the individual students
one by one; they hesitantly mustered words
to match my unclear expectations;
hoping to avoid my sarcastic cackle,
or the full blown eyes gleaming
like the deepest darkest black marbles
wedged in my eye sockets,
their words trailed off, along with their interest.

I don't try to find a broom that fits my grip.
mine has always been the right fit,
and I've had the ability to travel through time,
and somehow connect one vague memory to the next,
adding detail and sharpening what was dull and lifeless,
so the imagery is mechanically pointed and precise.

My face paint is strategic war paint,
but brown, never green.
At once I'm judged as foreigner,
of foreign origin; young (you're THAT old?)

they will never know that I fear my own image
and imaginings
worse than they fear what power my pen wields.
to bear the weight of an expanse of thoughts--
strenuous, burdensome, careful responsibility--
with relief only once words materialize on a page,
on a screen,
that they will never read.

for no witch was born witch;
she was made so once her dreams shriveled
and resembled the lifeless frogs in her hands.

I'm sorry God, but they've taken you prisoner.

Their words indubitably once streamed from your lips,
as your fingers projected beams of light,
falling from the Heavens:
people dumbly read your signs so literally.

They've closed you in a book and recalled your name
when such mentioning benefited their own name,
hypocrites they are;
for there was never a hypoChrist
capable of making wine a commodity
and bread a demon,
unless it is gluten-free.

How your intentions are clouded in veils.
****** in your name.
To glorify you.
Pushing scared young lovers--two men-- against barbed wire fences
and insisting they are sinful, foul--better off dead.
Maybe the hate is right
because it wins ten times out of nine.

God, they constantly judge each other
when they don't believe in the "right" version of you.
And they represent a new hipper you for the youth:
they want to understand you, when really they just
want to be understood.

Some days I walk past strangers and wonder,
"Who do you want me to be?"
Am I not Muslim enough unless I cover my hair?
Am I too Moz-lim if I say Allah and mean God--
just God, not whatever inane misnomer you'll tell me I really believe
you to be.

I think you tire of our piddle paddle,
how we puff up our chests, only to blow out a tiny breath of air,
that in one instant you can extinguish:
the candle had no choice.

We think we give the world meaning.
We feel so special when we hear ourselves think,
but sometimes, I wish you'd speak instead of all these false prophets.

I'm not afraid of the dark--
I'm afraid of the light,
that stealthy insight that looms overhead and slowly
envelopes my mind:
equal parts consolation and condemnation
of the decisions I've made and the dreams I've deferred
until tomorrow,
always tomorrow.

I can't sleep till midnight
because my mind insists on activity;
my whole being validated by three lines,
or three words,
whatever I write I become; I see.

What would you say
if I told you I count to twenty,
three times in a row after I hit snooze five times,
that I lie in bed, ruminating my failures
and the impending day,
resolute and domineering,
like an aged, hardened war general
who refuses to answer to, "I will not, sir;
I cannot do that, even for you,
or my country...sweet land of tyranny."

I think I find some meaning
and solace
in the minutes that beckon to morning
and hold fast to inevitable recycling of failure come freedom--
for, we are no longer chained by our fears when we forget
perfection.

I'll never reach that star;
I have no ladder that steep,
or hands that far reach,
outstretching past my own soiled skin--

tears that bleed.

black paint slips down a weathered white canvas,
soiling age and dignity: fine lines and discoloration.
but her will wished for the knowledge--
volumes of thick tired dust drenched pages
recorded the deeds from do-good and destruction,
and while she believed the words would cure her,
they rarely did.

My head aches like torrential, relentless rain,
pounding on the rooftops and sending birds
flying away, far away, a little earlier than
what I learned in 2nd grade when I drew three birds
on momma bird's back: I was creative then,
but I can't create a sound now--

the sound of graceful acceptance of a belly,
still a belly, that feels like a graveyard
when I touch defiant black hairs standing straight
against smooth fawny skin; I feel the hollowness within.
Ali Baba would find refuge here, but thieves stole my treasure.

Those in white coats and button downs and sharp shiny square shoes
stroll past my disheveled gym hair, lint covered yoga pants,
uneven pale fingernails: I'm a recovering anemic.
A small frightened girl with cat moon eyes stares around her
and clutches her hand closer to her abdomen for an embrace,
an act of second nature, not forgotten yet.

Remember when they took the spoon and scooped out ice cream,
hungrily, viciously, mouthful overtaking mouthful
until nothingness remained:
an insatiable appetite for something sweet.

Somewhere in some corner a spider releases eggs and dies.