there is pressure on my diaphragm
like right before a free fall,
before I cry, throw up,
or laugh hysterically.
my head hums to flickering eye lids
as there’s a sparkly liquid
running down my spine and stomach wall.
it is coming right from my head, I think.
these sure are just the side effects
of your new ventilator.
It must have been,
the rhythmed blasts of air
towards our locked hands,
heavy breathing,
and our beating hearts,
that cause me so much pain today.
I push until I pierce three times
through thin aluminum.
with tepid water from the tap
running down my throat,
I don’t know what loss I mourn.
curled up like an embryo,
I used to suck you up as well,
you’d mute the symptoms for a while
until I got too used to you.
until I’d have to up the dose.
instead your impact lingered;
and like acetaminophen, it left
a burning stomach wall,
the ache of missing him,
and craving for you still.
I hold my tea cup
a thin thread of patience left
I’m sick of waiting
between time and space
there is an alternative
it is you and me
a couple of shoes
align and wait to be worn
I am barefooted
the grass I walk on
is morning-cold and wet still
I need to warm up
a chain of people holding hands in Lebanon
–dozens of kilometers, I heard–
the book vendor’s voice as she elaborates on some Norwegian novel
–I never read it in the end–
his pink shirt smelling of a wooden wardrobe and Chanel
–it used to intensify toward his wrist–
people singing well on casting shows
–although I really do not care–
Snow Patrol on gravel-grounded morning walks
–sound and pulse and volume–
breathing in snow-pregnant winter air
–I could taste it when I was a kid–
the morning we began this list, high on caffeine and in love
–unlike you, the formication did return–
you are jeopardy,
I am your candidate.
I seek the questions
to your answers
which may well be just a lie.
lack of interest
weary, restless
perforation,
drill, a hole made
making tired
digging away
loose material –
the one I built
my life upon.
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
All damp, I tease you. Shame’s tremor
hums ahead. I act a role, so play me
as you create hell’s metaphor.
I am a sad muse, teach me hope.
Come, I’m all yours, Master
My spasms harm as I rot.
Still, you are there
to hear my praise.
I compare thee
to a red rose,
I presume.
Please,
dare
me.
after the treatment, some of it broke off.
for a while, my anger had been feeding
on my craving for attention.
the only thing left to do was to bleach my hair.
I had handed my body over twice the night before.
the first smelled bad and wanted instructions.
the second said smart things, then wet my bed.
he jumped up at dawn.
I made scrambled eggs for him later that day.
the sun had risen under thickened clouds.
I left with his sheets.
my mattress was still soaked.
I went to the mall and there it was.
dignity converted into peroxide.
in a box that said: New Look.
(inspired by a sonnet form, arranging cut-outs from several reports on the “corona virus” and “migrant crisis” in March 2020)
In the battle, Europe has responded, discussing outer border closures,
Struggling with the influx and its screening,
As there’s confusion on the streets, regarding face-masks, meetings, and exposures;
The military build-ups gave new meaning,
To some ways which help communities combat, obeying social distances.
The border crisis calls for more fences,
All despite the several agreements that allow free movement without checks,
Water cannons and tear-gas will push back.
How dangerous is this virus, what are the symptoms and how are they detected?
As the crisis lasts, which European countries will be those worst affected?
Tell me, how many are, in fact, approved?
It might be a defeat for human rights,
But it’s a victory for the leaders that are braced: Together ahead, they move –
While children freeze to death in Syrian nights.
