Autumn
We stood shoulder-to-shoulder in the kitchen.
Everything yellow. The trees, the music
you chose. We laughed. We peeled garlic
and baked potatoes. Some afternoons are soft
this way. We miss them as they are happening.
How did we begin to cry?
It was when you rubbed my shoulders.
You said it would be fine. I think that was it—
the word fine. It was blunt as a knife.
It was complete. It wasn’t ours to trade.
New Years
I walked home with heavy bags.
It was afternoon. I hated the fumes
but couldn’t stop breathing.
What choice did we have?
At night people danced.
I watched with envy. Same bar and people.
Music no longer moved me.
I always thought my mother’s green eyes
would protect me but somehow I fell
into a dark hole.
Truth was I enjoyed my time there.
It helped that you stayed
We peeled skin. Ate bread.
The cave got darker
and I liked the lack of sound.
Then one day I looked at you.
I realised I loved you or at least
some version of myself with you.
And that was enough to climb out.
Now I’m walking home again.
The sun isn’t bright but enough.
Sometimes it is that simple.
You have to learn the same lessons
again and again.
***
Logo by Mina M. Jafari
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We Are More is an inclusive space for SWANA (Southwest Asian and North African) and SWANA diaspora writers to tell our stories, our way. Curated by Michelle Zamanian, this new column seeks to disrupt the media’s negative and stereotypical narratives by creating a consistent platform to be heard, outside of and beyond the waxing and waning interest of the news cycle. We’ll publish creative nonfiction, graphic essays, fiction, poetry, and interviews by SWANA writers on a wide variety of subject matter.
