steady this heart
taken by a tide of calculated misfortune


a mother bids her young boy farewell
steady this heart
steady
at every corner
armed and standing proud
at crossings ready to fire
dressed in green ready to defend
olive skin and deep set almond shaped eyes
eyes that do not deny the young boys
identity
the scent of oregano and thyme
the scent of his mother
still lingering in his nostrils
one wrong move,she warned him
a side ways glance
a friendly gesture
will only stir suspicion in the men dressed in green
steady this heart
steady
the young boy walked past the buildings where men in green were mounted
his eyes never meeting theirs
he didnt dare break the straight line he was walking
looking forward
he still felt his mother's arms wrapped around him
at a crossing he was forced to present his papers
legal documents binding him to a life of
occupation
blockades
curfews
legal documents deeming him and others like him
a terrorist
a dirty
filthy
terrorist
he remembered his mothers warnings when the man dressed in green shoved him
and then politely asked him to speak louder
look at me boy, he said

sitty, as you would have it, i remember the land of figs and olives

i remember your fragile hands, ravaged by the passing of time.with your eyes alone, you told a tale of the past. a past wrapped in deep guttural sounds -sounds as exotic as the curves of my almond shaped eyes and my sun- kissed skin. This past, you told me, belonged to me just as the olive and fig trees belong to you. i inherited this past in my name and on my shoulder it rests. That land. This land, you told me, is my home. a home i only visited once. a home far away from home.

i was received as a  a passing traveler.

i touched the soil of that land. tasted its fruits of figs and olives. men clad in uncontrollable emotion greeted me with puffs of cigarette smoke . women scoffed at my ungraceful movement. they associated me with blue jeans and loud music. a foreigner. grains of coffee formed a prediction of my awful future, marred by the reality of my foreign existence.

love is

http://www.yasminmogahed.com/2012/01/03/this-is-love/

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