Back to Issue Forty-Nine

Ruz

BY MAJDA GAMA

 

Sometimes a sack of rice is full of rice,

not filled with a breathing body.

 

The body of a young girl transported 

to the safety of a mountain home, 

 

rocked by camelback away 

from her sieged city with every sway. 

 

Sometimes the concert halls are open &

the young girl is a young woman 

 

with marcel waves, a gap 

in her teeth & Cairene clothes. Rice 

 

stops coming down the Suez Canal 

when the British seize the thoroughfare. 

 

She hears the mountains are misting 

over her city, back home, as they do

 

in the spring. The sleep of summer 

rooftops arriving in letters 

 

from cousins with a new country 

inscribed on the envelope. Sometimes, 

 

pictures arrive of family 

in Hijazi dress, their new nationality

 

still a costume to try on: black 

silks in the summer. Some women 

 

will keep their white scarves. Some

years they posed their sons for pictures, 

 

costumed them in stiff, velvet Ottoman suits, 

child-sized swords belted to boy-waists. 

 

Once, a girl entered a wedding hall 

at midnight. A great-aunt at her side, 

 

dark waves coiled in her hair, in 

their borrowed country of Egypt.

 

The bridal couple sat very still, 

propped up on a stage beneath flood lights. 

 

On every dressed table there were pots 

of coffee, seeds, & sweets. A waiter 

 

gestured her over to the couple’s moon-

sized platters of feast rice.   

Countries Yet To Exist

BY MAJDA GAMA

 

1.

 

There were countries yet to exist 

        Along the trade route into my own country. 

My family imported cigarette lighters, 

         Gold-plated pens & tea kettles hand-

Painted with the bright flora seen 

        On scarves worn in the Jeddah souk, 

Imported from central Asia.

        When I smoked my first cigarette, 

 I lit it with a family lighter 

         Nervous behind our new house next 

 To the villas of two uncles, & an aunt

         Who chose Egypt to reside in, her 

Empty villa conjoined ours 

         & her marble yard was washed daily

Should she arrive one day in her country.

         This habit I hid, took to the West 

With the lighter & a dented teapot. 

 

2.

 

I remember every place I smoked as if it was 

         Plated with a rare element,

In the Middle East I rarely could smoke:

         Sometimes there were heavy crystal 

Lighters & couture packs of slim cigarettes

         On trays brought around by maids

In women’s rooms within their family compound,

         & it was beautiful to be in this company,

But we were loose: loose women

         Smoke, loose women should marry

Loose women are unmarried.

         I love to say the word “loose” in Arabic.

It wasn’t a bad habit I packed with me,  

         To the West, I know now 

With every exit, I vanished from 

         My country, breath by breath.

Majda Gama is the author of The Call of Paradise selected by Diane Seuss as winner of the 2022 Two Sylvias chapbook prize. Her full-length manuscript won the 2023 Wandering Aengus Book Award and will be published in 2025. She is the 2023 Shenandoah Graybeal-Gowen award recipient for Virginia poets. Her poems have recently appeared in Four Way Review, Michigan Quarterly Review, The Offing, We Call to the Eye & the Night (Persea) an anthology of love poems by Arab Anglophone poets, and are forthcoming from Prairie Schooner and Shenandoah. She loves cardamom in her tea, saffron in her chocolate, and rosewater in everything. http://www.majdagama.com

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