Saturday, 2 April 2011


I used to be your favorite metaphor.
You took me home in a plastic bag from a carnival one day
and you tried to give me a name in a foreign tongue.
I said nothing.

We held hands in the streets of Amman,
shared stories and artificial orange juice on the sidewalks.
I became Noora.
I became dried apricots.
Now I am powdered milk.

Notice the rhythmic rocking.
You call for me by closing your mouth
and tilting your eyebrows.
You offer me trinkets:
a sack of coins and a rich boy with glasses;
two and a half cigarettes, an angry mother
and a gasping heart.

You press your face against the glass,
prepared to take notes.

I say nothing.

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