and from the inside in

Growing Up Solid in Kuwait
At first when I was young and frail
you used to beat my arms and legs
with a wooden stick, a candy pink
wrapping curved along its length.
You purchased your cheap
parenting aid by the dozen,
and said I had to obey, or else.
Did I not know that God
had placed heaven under your feet,
and hell outside my bedroom door.
And no, I couldn’t have a key.
But now that you are older
than the right kind of old
your own limbs creak when you sit
and your body heat drops, your
frailty wedges in between your bones,
and your fingers, no longer coiling
around the pink-strapped stick,
but trembling on their own accord,
you say it’s not about strength
anymore, or obedience, or
God’s honest truth, but
about time spent in each other’s
company, about soft embraces,
the smelling of necks, forehead kissing,
the old world, and a whole lot
of other things that never grazed
your lips before, when you
were upright and stiff.
I wonder if you remember
how much money you saved
buying those sticks by the dozen
and if you prefer purple to pink.
Nada Faris
Janus/Portunus
In memory of 26/06/2015
Two sides of the same coin.
But what do you expect?
Gnawing with wet teeth
at the Eternal Spring of Dawn.
The river of blood within.
They gnash and claw each
other with rabid delight.
But what do you expect?
Forgiveness is merely a word,
man-made. A gun, a bomb, is not.
Glory is the holy crucifixion,
the burning bush and the
seventy-two virgins in a single shot.
But what do you expect?
A word is a word is a word.
A war is not. It is the will to forge
repose in the world for all of US.
Oil the spear. Prepare the Gods for oil.
But what do you expect?
The selfish soul of man
is found at last in greedy genes
disclosed in cells and coined in labs.
But a fact is a whore
working for the rich and famous,
fearing the cabal of mercenaries,
ready and willing and able, to teleport
at moment’s notice at the brothel’s door.
But what do you expect?
It was strapped to his chest.
When he detonated the bomb
his faith ricocheted against
the walls of the mosque,
severing limbs and stealing lives.
But what do you expect?
A massacre on the sand
unfortunate tide, untimely
waves. A head among the flags.
Unending cries spanning continents.
But what do you expect?
Start the fire.
Throw in the keys for luck.
Eschew the Spring for the Fountain,
the florid cheeks, slapped red and pink
with love.
What else do you expect?
Nada Faris
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