You tell me you love me
"*******, *****!"
You call out the window at me like Romeo
"Welcome home, beautiful."
The text messages read raw
"I'll always love you, Jamila"
But my name isn't Jamila.
I drop you off for a few days
It's your sister's birthday
A year since her death
Through angry tears you kiss me goodbye
"See you in a couple of days, after the celebration.
I'll be calling you like crazy. I'll miss you like crazy. Answer."
You don't call.
There is a new picture on our computer
She's got glasses, mousy brown hair, and is holding her cell phone
I do too.
I text you and ask you who these people are
"There's no one else, I swear. I love you. I'll marry you. Let's get married, K?"
You think I'm coming to pick you up.
I won't.
You tell me you love me.
Well, *******, *****.

I met my neighbor today.
Well, he's not my neighbor yet,
but he will be when I'm forty-two
and have that burgundy four-door.
He'll have two kids by then,
one from a previous marriage;
loud mouth little *****,
always reminding his step-mother
that his real mom wouldn't stand for
what she wants to call discipline.
I should really remind his dad to return
my rototiller when I see him next.
-
The meteorologist called for sleet
and I still don't see any ****** sleet.
I walked to the fuel station and got a fountain soda;
I counted six stray cats on the way back.
One of them used to belong to a woman
by the name of Jamila who moved back to Atlanta
in July of last summer.
The cat never liked to come to her,
so it stayed behind to chart star patterns.
Sometimes, when no one is out on the street,
the cats meet in alleyways to gossip
about the state of affairs in the soy city.
-
I buried seven heads-up pennies
underneath the yield sign on Union street
last Wednesday, I believe it was.
I'm still waiting on a reply,
but Mr. Cuttlefish isn't known for his punctuality.
No one is around here;
it's bad for your health if everyone knows where
and when you'll be.
They say one of the neighbor kids
found a piece of amber the size of a plum
in a box of Rice Chex from the corner market.
I knew someone would find it eventually.
-
Every umpteenth sidewalk slab has an "X" engraved
in the top, right-hand corner.
It signifies a meeting zone, and if you wait their long enough
I can probably convince one of the
silver men from the condemned apartment building
to let me borrow their aural symphonizer
so I can finally see what it's like
to extract one while it is still alive and roily.
It wont be too long of a wait,
as the men are always brief with conversation
and always seem to blink and breathe
at the exact same time I do.

“I bet she’s good in bed”;
That’s what they said.
As she walked past alone;
On her way home.
From her job at the bar;
Where every guy;
Near and far.
Seems to think it’s okay;
To grab her all day.

When she gets home;
The messages she reads.
The pictures she’s sent;
“you’d look good on your knees’.
On the bus to the shops;
On this guy hops.
Stand right beside her;
Like a tall lanky spider.
Brushes her top;
Just as the bus stops.

She just wants to live;
She just wants to breath.
Without having these men;
Cling on like disease.
She just wants to be;
She just wants to see.
What it’s like for a day;
To come what may.

Without the glance of a man;
Without that penetrating gaze.
She just wants to go home;
Without running a maze.
But that’s not how it is;
It’s really not fair.
She knows that each day;
Each hour, each minute.
Could be her last second;
So why even begin it?

You see what you’ve done?
With your lustful ‘fun’.
You’ve told her she’s meat;
Just there for you in heat.
And like meat to slaughter;
A father loses his daughter.
Well done son;
You’ve had your fun.

Gather your books, your notebooks, your pages and pages
Barely legible Catholic school cursive, oil crusted papers
Coffee stains, cheese danish crumbs, ink marks on your thighs

Use your mother’s brain, your father’s tireless oxen energy
Your sister’s bravery, your grandmother’s mix of mango & tajin,
Your grandfather’s home grown guavas from the rooftop gardens
You come from a legacy, a star doesn’t explode in isolation

At my funeral play Jamila, play Nitty, NoName,
Rihanna, SZA, Mahlia, Kamaiyah, MIA, Nina,
Light a votive in the shape of Beyonce and baby Blue
Sing your blues, the chorus never sounded this good

You can see her among Egyptian girls' styles.
Her rosy lips like Tharia's when she smiles.

Her eyes glow like Thania's, twin stars shine,
Her wavy hair cascades, parted to the left, neatly in line.

With the sweetest hairstyle, she seems like Kamal's bride,
Her deep golden wheat skin mirrors Khadra's pride.

Her tenderness, as breeze, shows Sawsan's grace.
Blush roses on her cheeks, painting a glimmering face.

Oh my God, truly, she is a masterpiece.
Her photo moves from hand to hand, hearts aspiring peace.

A gaze of pity towards her youth,
While those unaware wonder about truth.

Djamila's fate, a truth, can not be silenced to set her free.
Djamila from Algeria, the land by the Mediterranean sea.

Proudly, knights of legends, our brethren sharing the Arab identity.
A flag planted, fluttering on the peak, symbol of fidelity.

Those abandoning their homes, comfort, and warmth.
Standing firm for justice, to live a dignity's worth.

A rebel from the people's heart, who hates the wrongs, brave and true.
She loves Algeria, songs, buildings, gardens, and children, too.

Djamila's fate lies beyond all imagination's might,
She runs while bleeding,O wound, endure the plight.

Locals count the days, and my love for Algeria exceeds worship.
Cut and run, with a bullet in her shoulder, bones shattered in hardship.

She bled, ran, until she crumbled from strain.
The attack dogs caught her, yet she never surrendered despite the pain.

Yet she never spilled, despite torture, crucifixion, and relentless force.
Oh, the sorrow for the youth, trapped in dogs' jaws, with no remorse.

They wrote torment upon her, where wedding vows should have been.
The world spins, and the eye has silently seen.

In her picture, her eyes, like Thania's, appeared.
Fading lips that once laughed like Tharia's, that now disappeared.

Her wavy hair, parted from the left side,
It was soaked in blood rather than cascading like Kamal's bride.

The apple of her mother’s eye, the sprite of strife,
Djamila’s fate is a load  that even mountains can not strive.

A single string from the violin's heart wailed in the anthem's prelude for her,
The remaining strings screamed without tears, reaching the throats of the masses everywhere

Before the courthouse door, the crowd stands still, singing a thunderous song,
While judges, a ruthless band, with hearts of stone, their judgment wrong.

As if upon their eyes, a haze,
A blood upon their hands, ablaze.
They listen to the songs, as in a distant land, so wide,
What good are meanings in mind, so dark and blind?

Through endless nights, the guillotine is whetted, chains are drawn,
While in her cell, she waits till dawn.

Throughout the night, the battles rage within the mountain’s stronghold deep,
And Jamila, through the storm and cage, lives on hope, her soul to keep.

O hero, move forward with the rifle in your hand,
Let the fire ignite, for the battle will stand.

For Djamila, her fate is naught but never to give up.
No escape from striving, nothing but to rise up.