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      May 28, 2021On the Reconstruction of Shame with Lines from Mashrou’ LeilaYasmeen Alkishawi

      At thirteen I wanted
      nothing more than for my belly to tuck and roll
      to the voice of a bearded man singing
            a universe grows on my body.
            To get pushed
      into a crowd whose every undulation is in a tribute to me
              being untouched. I am not yielding.
                         Still you pronounced me as beautiful,
      and I said habibi, keep singing,
            and I will keep doing the things a woman is not supposed to do.
       
      In the 7th grade prayer room, we practiced falling
                          on our knees
            without the thump—muted,
            is either what they think we are, or what they want us to be.
      Ahmed’s parents wanted a son who didn’t want other boys, who wanted
      their own hands to unravel despite their unwilling of it? The reprieve of
      knowing Egypt will eventually lift their ban, and Mashrou’ will sing again
      and suddenly life gives me back All that it has taken from me
       
      And suddenly it’s just you and the man you love most
            is on the other end of the crowd,
                       who in all black and fully veiled
                       won’t let you touch him for no other reason than,
      well, it’s ungodly.
      Tell them. Say it. Say, He blew love in my chest. 
                       My God he blew love in my chest. 
                                         Shame is in the past.

      from #71 - Spring 2021

      Yasmeen Alkishawi

      “Sometimes I think I am just writing all the things I am too afraid to say out loud. As Romeo Oriogun said, ‘I am always inheriting the fear of all that is lost.’ For me, my poems are a vessel for the confrontation of that fear. Through this confrontation, I can attempt to piece together the shatterings of hope, wherever they may be.”