I've lived as her; / I've known my mother’s plight.

Years later, when I would no longer live in my parents' room and grow to have my own,/ I would disregard all the hours I had spent by the window staring at beetles hiding.

I took a lonely stroll  on the hollows of your cheeks

We will chase after stringless kites, Down the road

I heard myself speak today It made me want to Cut out my tongue.

For eons piano keys unmoved Lay silently asleep

But I bloom like a flower:/ Soft and strong.

Autumn transcended Winter– / Crispness in the air fell pale.

rise, rise—now evening dies: sun-born in valleys with burning olive trees—where  women like me plod one day at a time,

For once, can love look like a Sunday morning; filled with warmth, calmness and motionless?

Sweet cold air finds its way to my lungs,

wounded limbs heal faster, / than a wounded conscience

There are no clocks inside this house. The walls are quiet, the windows loud.

What happens when your desire Lies in being alive?

Lacerating the unfortified,/ Picking at the flesh for bad blood to find

Bury your feet where its green And when the air is thin you will see 

His five sons/ Were killed and the books...

She’s as real as my meandering/ As tangible as tinkering.

Once a homebody, nestled in its embrace. Now lost, a wanderer in a boundless space.

Seven feet of mud swept water, /Bodies under rubble.