Day 29 Poem: Rainy Jazz ~ Alyah Al Aswad
This is not about a girl, because a head of dandelion feather and lava blood leaking into rocky capillaries right when the night divorces me, does not pay the rent.
Mornings under a roof are just a proclamation that you got your ass off the streets for 10 hours. For 10 fingers of ours aren’t enough to keep our nudity warm.
How do you rewind an eviction notice into a welcome note addressing us as the next tenants.
I have a dented barrel in my living room, oozing gray in the aftermath of a flame quarreling with my own manuscripts. The little I own peals my lips into orange pulp feeding on canned fear of hunger. I love what I write, but my darling got cold last night. Her toes pet the oak of my studio floors at 6:47 am, after one alarm snoozed itself into a 10 minute death. I touched her back with jumper cable arms to electrify the daily rise. I sit in an unmade bed, dipped in mattress warmth. She used to say good-morning, but stopped. The foaming of scratched brush and tooth is supposed to say something to me to replace the words I lost in the barrel, but silence isn’t something I can beat onto a typewriter.
From her spot in the kitchen, she manages to recreate the rain hitting my bedroom window glass with whole grains ticking against the ceramic of a bowl. My stomach feels as thick as hollow milk-box compressed. I stand inside my tied shoes, jeans buttoned on, but topless as her unbuttered toast. I slip into my cup of coffee, eyeing her through the steam. She scrambles for office keys, when I’d much rather she’d be a squatter frying scramble eggs in a pan with me. Nine to five jobs are proof of an abusive relationship with bills in the mail. She shouldn’t have gone for the doorknob. My lap was still spare and my day unplanned as a pregnancy scare. At the edge of by hallway, she said goodbye.
Who would want to wake up to a goodbye.
Mornings under a roof are just a proclamation that you got your ass off the streets for 10 hours. For 10 fingers of ours aren’t enough to keep our nudity warm.
How do you rewind an eviction notice into a welcome note addressing us as the next tenants.
I have a dented barrel in my living room, oozing gray in the aftermath of a flame quarreling with my own manuscripts. The little I own peals my lips into orange pulp feeding on canned fear of hunger. I love what I write, but my darling got cold last night. Her toes pet the oak of my studio floors at 6:47 am, after one alarm snoozed itself into a 10 minute death. I touched her back with jumper cable arms to electrify the daily rise. I sit in an unmade bed, dipped in mattress warmth. She used to say good-morning, but stopped. The foaming of scratched brush and tooth is supposed to say something to me to replace the words I lost in the barrel, but silence isn’t something I can beat onto a typewriter.
From her spot in the kitchen, she manages to recreate the rain hitting my bedroom window glass with whole grains ticking against the ceramic of a bowl. My stomach feels as thick as hollow milk-box compressed. I stand inside my tied shoes, jeans buttoned on, but topless as her unbuttered toast. I slip into my cup of coffee, eyeing her through the steam. She scrambles for office keys, when I’d much rather she’d be a squatter frying scramble eggs in a pan with me. Nine to five jobs are proof of an abusive relationship with bills in the mail. She shouldn’t have gone for the doorknob. My lap was still spare and my day unplanned as a pregnancy scare. At the edge of by hallway, she said goodbye.
Who would want to wake up to a goodbye.
This blog documents the memoirs of a Queer Arab Muslim Woman, who holds an interest in the advancement of LGBTQ awareness within Middle Eastern societies. Alyah Al Aswad is a young writer, activist, poet and spoken word artist, based in Amman, Jordan. For bookings, interviews and blog sponsorship inquiries, please contact the author at riversoulx@gmail.com.
