i'm on my knees in front of you
you're leaning against the wall
i'm loving you loving you loving you.
we're in my mother's childhood bedroom --
three beds in a row
three nightstands neatly separating them.
jasmine and humidity
green shutters blocking out
the unbearable damascus sun.
the way your eyes are half closed
and your mouth half open
sighing and gasping for air
this is the way i like to see you.
i'm in nirvana
and you take me there
when your hands are on my head
pulling me towards you because you want more
but pushing me away because you're so spent.
we hear the sounds of the children in the street
and the peddler pushing his cart, "ya darra, ya darra."1
this is bliss --
your knees buckle and you push against the wall
my tongue is in overdrive
and my hands have become part of your body
your muscles are contracting and pulling me
deeper and deeper
we are in my grandparents' kitchen --
concrete floors, secret stairs that lead to a pantry,
a table that once seemed so huge.
i'm showing you the blood near the stove
where my grandfather was murdered
it's still wet to the touch though his body is long gone.
this is the one spot where i can't make love to you
because the memories still paralyze me
and send chills down my spine.
this is the sugar canister that oversupplied
my grandfather's teacup,
nevermind the diabetes.
Note: Darra means corn in Arabic