Jess Rizkallah
IF A TREE FALLS IN THE FOREST AND I BLOCK YOUR NUMBER DO I GIVE A SHIT
i want to be quiet
like trees. soft in a way
that bread can be.
when you look at me
i want to die the way
a minute does
then undoes it’s not
that serious.
my understanding of yeast
depends on infection
& anecdote. i wear jeans
all summer, i don’t drink
enough water.
my doctor swabs me
to be sure & i hum
about birds.
the make & model is not
important though if you
must know: grackles.
dull sheen & missing
feathers.
i break a stick of gum
in half & then in half
again until no gum
just sticky
everything & dust
around the metal
in my nose.
july exposes my chest
i name each hair
a different seed. i sweat
& bloom.
if you pick
a berry, then eat it. if you pick
a flower, it dies.
leave
me
alone.
NOTE ON PHOSPHENES
after fairuz & abdelhalim & chance the rapper
here we are, the forest above us erupting
into branches searching for a pulse
where once, we spilled from the wrists of our mothers
our tongues forked and sharpened against a city
different from the one our parents
fell into, their wounds held to salt.
once, we were uncomplicated, a gramophone
playing where the stereo usually goes. the top down.
a driver less angry when the flute played.
then i played the soft fabric of my skirt’s violin
as you remembered my name
into a faded ribbon
smokelike through a
salty wind tunnel carving into
the air inside a drum
then a pomegranate
full of teeth
then layers of oil
applied with a knife
a canvas softening
into an empty hand
i remember you now, an apple
cushioned in soft water
filling the basin of the sink.
a head held under cold water
by a grandmother’s hands
but the baptism in the olive oil
that always comes after
something to spill
into the sails
this is not about love anymore
just the warm thread making
then unmaking, moving
between us do you hear it?
oh, wow. arabic is so windy.
it sounds it sounds
like wind
