'anaa qaadimun
“Then I stopped crying, I cried with hatred and the crying of hate is stimulating, my best ideas were born from hatred.”
crusted stains on bedsheets
blood on the white cushions
fires blaze on hillsides, curvaceous
as a woman's fertility.
a guns nose peeps from the car window
and the vines shake by those furry limbs
night screams from the monkeys, or
the children with the firecrackers.
i walked the path uphill alone in the dark
with the women in their high heels
fishnet chokers and leather bags.
the ringing of a bell—I will arrive later.
Photo source.
