Poet in New York

Standing at the foot of the staircase, feet apart.
We can carve apologies in blood not dollars

A thin, old woman, an inch or two in front of me – avocado 
ribbon twisting in the wind – asks: “Has it started again?”

Grabbing the railing she mutters “There used to be
two of us.” I think, There used to be two of us

on the marble bench. It’s cold. That’s no Voice of God
beckoning forward a desert mirage that I had

fallen for earlier. Now I swear, Never again.
And I will again. I will fall in love

with my own bruises right here between my gut
and my dream particles, I pull out my notebook and pen

Stuck in the station until the torrent subsides.
Rain on the ground: puddle of whisked milk.

I too have called forth madness into my tiny apartment.
Locked fingers à la Ginsberg with poltergeists. 

Between Columbia’s dusty shelves I learned
the gargles of graveyards, so I kept

telling Lorca Look. Two women arms twined
emerge from the metro fully fledged Athenas.

If I could still this moment to capture its contours, 
I’d pay more attention to the birds huddling refugees

in the corner behind the green
metallic trashcan. “Let’s do it after three!”

I write magic is hiding everywhere…
Our heads knock back in appreciation

when the women charge the storm.
Rapturous roars break out of our lungs.

Pharos of Alexandria

“Come, even if you have broken your vows
a thousand times” — Rumi

To conjure the seventh wonder of the ancient world
watch me stack Lego-bricks on magic parchment.
We will never need a lock. My eyes gave up 

Panopticons and closets long ago. I know you fear 
I’d write you in a box of darkness with a bird in its heart. 
But you can hear it in your throat. These poems thrust 

only with permission. Loosen your jaw. Relax your tongue. 
Lick the prickling roof. When one’s flesh is undone 
at the slightest of whispers, ask the body not to explain. 

Sit next to me, let me part your lips with a heartbeat. 
How does it make you feel? This fire blistering in your belly 
is ready to set ablaze enemy arks from a hundred miles.

Your flames can shine seven times brighter than your light 
can burn, visible even from Istanbul. Everything is a choice. 
Do not embrace your darkness. Fight back your urge

to hurt the one you love. The Pharos of Alexandria 
has served as the prototype for every lighthouse 
across history – including our own.

Nada Faris received an Arab Woman Award from Harper’s Bazaar Arabia in 2018 for her impact on Kuwait’s creative landscape. Faris is the author of three international books. She is an Honorary Fellow in Writing at Iowa University’s International Writing Program (IWP) Fall 2013 and alumna of the International Visitor Leadership Program (IVLP) April 2018: Empowering Youth Through the Performing Arts. Faris has earned her MFA in Creative Writing from Columbia University. Her poems, essays, and short stories have appeared in: The Norton Anthology for Hint Fiction, Nimrod, Sukoon, One Jacar, Amethyst Review, The Operating System, Indianapolis Review, and more.

Website: www.nadafaris.com
Twitter: @nadafaris