Here my palm, somewhere else a house
broken into. Shattered windows sprawling
in place of an invasion. Every piece intact, cracked
into itself. Zephyrs gutting
tenderness into discretion for the world
to look through a bruised sky
collected in glass. In a séance, leaves
envy the natural sound carried
in crisps. Inside, chamomiles sprout to be crushed
under a wanderer’s foot. Wholly, unplucked.
An abandoned silk farm outlives the offering
of delicacy. A field is ransacked
for the safekeeping of next season’s crop. A pyre
clenched in my fist wafts softness for miles.
This juice was not squeezed out of unbroken fruit.
It is a name a thing comes from.
These pits don’t teeth plums without swallowing the soil.
My tips chiseled my tips obsidian smooth. Pried open
in mirrors sequenced with arrowheads fit for the cut
ready to fill me in.
*Ghomeedah means hide-and-seek in the Lebanese-Arabic dialect.
Originally published in Sukoon Magazine
Nadim Choufi is a Lebanese poet and his recent work has appeared in or is forthcoming from Versal, Sukoon, the Shade Journal, and elsewhere. He tweets from @nadimchoofs.