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      September 4, 2009MyopicNahrain Al-Mousawi

      My mother wants
      Custody over my tactlessness, my nonsense
      And whatever else comes out of my mouth
      So that she can stick it in a frame and
      Prop it up on her sewing table
      But fancy needlework has ruined her eyes and
      The Muslim women who pay her for
      Embroidering and beading
      The eyelet and fringe of their scarves are
      Sisters whom she will see
      In Paradise
      So she doesn’t complain
      Instead her eyes blur dreams of scarves
      With no top and no bottom
      Endless hem wind-clapping
      Falling like a pretense
      A protective tarpaulin
      Furiously screening me
      From my father’s arms
      Her own plans
      To cross me over her chest
      And make some sense out of me

      from #22 - Winter 2004

      Nahrain Al-Mousawi

      “In pre-Islamic times, an Arab woman poet—a ‘poetess’—recited verses urging tribes of men to pulverize the enemy on a battlefield littered with bodies. Today I sit tapping away at my laptop in an apartment littered with ashes and empty cigarette packs where I’m killing no one but myself. The pacifist in me thinks that my scenario is nobler. But in all honesty, a larger audience like hers wouldn’t hurt.”

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