she must have hated him,
for giving her me.
how did you bring yourself sir,
to be with her?
she must have hated him,
for pausing her life,
with new life.
she must have grown to love me,
a book of folded pages,
a shelf keep.
still she must of hated him,
cervix to bosom lamentations,
that feeling is awfully familiar.
Who is worthy of the hate,
or do I love them both regardless,
just by default,
the expected thing?
Reconciliation of detachment,
is a haunting thing.
combing the contradictions,
palpating for a pulse,
colour, love and hate blind.
some things are hard to swallow
like a son teaching his father
the predicament that keeps me silent
the irony is,
all he wanted
was for me to be educated
and now that I have surpassed him
he despises me.
so silent, I grow
into shadows, I roll
into vanish, I throw
I fold, I fold
I beg you,
won’t you leave me grief in your will?
must you take my grief with you,
ever the scalpel,
incising you from me,
ensuring no donor match is possible.
on the table,
turn off the support,
don’t let my son,
have any dignified memory of me.
Your life sounds like a weeping cello,
with a frayed bow,
you strike the bellows of pain with all you have,
assuming you’re making music,
sorrow never makes for fatherly fortress,
all you had to do was change keys,
and your audience would have been different.
I don’t remember climbing your shoulders,
holding you around the neck,
kissing your lips,
or creating vacuum locks between our palms.
But aren’t you lucky, you have a son that prays,
that on the day of judgement you’ll be sitting
on his shoulders,
that has smitten his neck so you can walk across
the sword bridge over hell,
that has honoured your feet by servitude to his Lord,
that on that day, will be pulling you by the hand.
-Wesam El dahabi
From my father, I inherited a back.
From my mother, I inherited mercy.
From God, I inherited confusion.
How can I be merciful to a man that knows
nothing but toil?
How can I be strong towards a woman that is
as tender as an autumn leaf?
For God, thank you for the confusion, the only
thing that helped me make sense.
There will be a time,
When you must take to your dreams with a sledge hammer,
To put bread in the belly of your children.
I assure you, those hands, will know how to build again.
Don’t fear letting go of some things for survival,
It is the nature of men to throw their limbs into the fire to warm their children.
A man who wont, is deprived of knowing the very core of his flesh.
Everything of beauty and love, sacrifices.
Men, know the way to the altar.
You could have beat me,
To show me you have a hand that loves.
How much of your hand is enough,
How little is not enough?
You left me here oblivious, sifting through what it means to be a man,
loving his children, loving his wife, just loving,
and for the most part, their love found me first and led the way.
But you didn’t show me how a boy loves his father, so how do you want me to love you now that I am a man?
Time is all I have of worth that’s mine. The currency is universal, all children know how to barter with it. You could have paid me with time.