Oleaceae

As I drink the fruit you once plucked from your trees
I hear your notes chirping to the sound of the mosque,
And I remember why I am here.

Sitting alone by your trees, thanking you silently.
For my roots are the constant visions in your mind
They are the words you speak- the melody
On the tip of your tongue
They are the soil I walk on
Escorted by your memoir as I pray to capture every detail
And back by your side retrace the steps we overlapped on.

When I sit by your sea and look at your stars
I wish I could give you my eyes.
I smell the flower of our homes
Planted by your side
Perfuming my every move.

And somewhere between here and there
I’ll find your Jasmine wing
As it hangs by your city’s door
Vow of your fragmented return.

-Nada El-Omari

Our suitcases never sit idle. They are all overflowing with varying fabrics, half-made, half-worn, half-forgotten, half-in-waiting. I think I might have forgotten the clothes I grew up on. But on occasion, when there was something I particularly loved, my mother would pull out a box of cookies and from it came out needles and a strange sowing kit. With my arms extended, floating around her laughter, she would measure a body that my eyes watched morph into colours I’d almost forgotten how to see, and from her tongue came words that until today, I’ve hidden into patterns and lines.

Over the threads you’ve spent hours on, I’ve stuffed my closeness in the softness of the linen.