How will you know what I mean,
if you won’t taste my tongue,
how will you hear my song,
with all this poetry unsung.
Why is my exotic only palatable,
when it is food on a menu,
and at other times, mock it, beat it,
without so much as a chew.
When I write, I write with the soul of an Arab,
if you see anything floating in the dust of these words,
that reflects light into your heart,
know, it is from my ancestors ashes floating about.
Atoms of longing,
centuries of belonging,
sternums breaking, loins disengaging,
it’s hard to quell this poetic thronging.