The News
BY YOSRA BOUSLAMA
Lately, I’ve been desperate for a line
I can trace in bright red
between tired and complacent.
A way of living with myself
as helpless, as happy to be living
somewhere else. It’s not a cop-out,
the therapist says. You’re just trying
to survive. But isn’t everyone? It’s hard
sometimes to ignore the tapping
of rain droplets against the window.
The low hiss of speckled grass
inhaling autumn’s breath. In another life,
my mother prays for sugar
and coffee. In this life, I’m sick
of counting beads. If only I could pause
this drowning — arms frozen mid-flutter
like a pinned butterfly. Static bubbles
spelling I’m trying. So much orange
blossom in my tea and no relief.
Every night, my muscles twitch
in Morse code: is there a way
to care without collapsing?
We Don’t Need New Names
BY YOSRA BOUSLAMA
In the dark, his empty breath lingers
like a misspelled tattoo on the back
of my neck. It’s never my name
he whispers, even when I insist
on beaming lights. I don’t know
if I can get used to this. The litany
of anonymous wishes etched on my skin.
All the men I love in America
avoid my name like they’re making
a peace offering. As if I wouldn’t notice
how their tongues only ever reach
for the ashes inside my mouth.
How they circle the tightly fastened
O only to retreat for fear of offending
my homesick ear. I don’t deny it.
I miss hearing my name the way
my mother says it—like I live up
to its meaning. Like it has a meaning.
But what I miss more is the matter-
of-fact way it tucks itself in the middle
of sentences or spills from a lover’s
mouth. Say my name, I begged once.
Say it as distorted
as desire can make it.