A Migrant’s Picnic, A Trans Miracle
The Walnut trees are cracking
from the children’s throwing of stones
How wrong were my throws?
How I was thinking of that pretty girl Fawzia..!
And that pretty girl was near me, feeding me nuts and fires
That pretty girl was near me, asking me whether my absence, a presence desires
she ran, so I ran
and my long black hair plucked the daisies
and we soon became one
– To where? she asks
– To you.. I said
– To where?
– To you?
– To where?
– To me
– Don’t follow me, it’s forbidden!
– But I.. am in love!
She laughed like a cloud
And, melted into a river of black sheets
Did you sleep a lot?
A running moon woke me up
while I was resting on the vines of the grape leaves
Hoping someone will pluck me
and mistake me for a delicious ingredient
to make my favorite Syrian meal
There is a miracle happening
The garden gathers around the women
All trees and all rivers collapsed to make gardens
From its top balcony, Fawzia appears
And at the other end, there is a desert scolding the men
Dice tables, leftover shisha, sunflower seeds, and stomachs of big bellies swallowing the springs
and I, rest in the middle,
Rest in the middle
or rather outside of it
and I, am amongst fairies
listening to the moss flirting with the binaries
And the river, it contains me
I flow in its tides
they roam and make a circle around my small breasts
– And the women, they do not want to look like me
The wetness waters my tiny mustache
– And the men they do not want to look like me
And the sun slowly feels upon my lips
It finds another raging sun cocooning in my insides
Cacooning in my insides
and soon
it enters my body
And the two suns become lovers
There is a miracle happening
There is a miracle happening
Green walnut in the palm of my hands
It turns into ink
so I could write this story, like Gilgamesh’s first epic on earth
And the pretty girl is getting smaller, smaller, and smaller until she exits my body
My mom checks on me every evening
and my father investigates my body
and the doctors also think that there is a miracle happening
that there is a miracle happening
that there is a miracle.. happening
they all..wonder why.. I have not yet become …a woman!
See in my culture
No, no in their culture
a baby
eventually turns into a child
a child turns into sex
and sex turns into gender
turns into calcium
turns into clogged arteries
turns into heart attack
turns into coffin
but no one shall know what killed the child
And no one shall know what killed their lover Fawzia
There is a miracle happening
Fawzia is the image of my fluid self
I flow in her until we reach the deserts
But we are welcomed by …Soldiers of mud
Camels without legs
Dunes of sand
And flying spears
Chiming with the rustling of the angry wind
They all reject us
And we quickly decide
To continue to flow
Till we reach a new city..
Fawzia is the image of my flowing self
She asks me
How about I turn you into a fish
So you can roam freely around the seas
I said no, I do not want to be hunted by fishermen
she said how about I turn you into a boat
And you can migrate across all the borders and keep the passengers afloat
I said no, the smugglers will misuse me
How about I turn you into a shark
And everyone shall be afraid of you
I said no, no I do not want to attack my siblings
How about I turn you into a spotted leopard
So you can easily jump the city wall
spiked with guards and screaming calls
And suddenly i found my body.. border’s tall
And I examine my face with freckles,
and my limbs, checkered
And there is a guard awaiting me
He mocks my poem
And he says sarcastically
You crossed all rivers, mountains, deserts and cities
Have you not seen my black shadows roaming around you?
Have you been blind to my gun, o poet?
Have you been blind to my gun o poet… O maker of all miracles and transformations?
I hold on tightly to Fawzia the image of my glowing self
And we hold the hand of the two suns
And we jump the fences and the guns
And the shadows ..slowly ..dissipate.