Hedy Habra

At the Violet Hour 

 

Star-crossed lovers unite as the city slips into slumber. I alone long to be swept by the swelling wave, feel it rolling me in its indigo fingers cooling me into a ball of blue ice, a maddened dervish whirling layers and layers of waves and azure, sea and sky, ignore these black leaping flames rising out of hatred and envy, a bonfire lit with rolled parchments filled with lost dreams and rosemary, its flickering sparks scattering yellow poppies in a cerulean field. How I wish you could see the timid evening crescent nest inside its golden case.

First published by Parting Gifts

From Under Brushstrokes (Press 53 2015)

 

 

Eating Pizza in a Renovated Hammam in Granada

 

was the closest I’d ever get

to that sensuous space envisioned

by Gérôme & Ingres.

 

Sunrays filtered through

star-shaped skylights

cast geometric shadows

over the tables,

broken lines drifted

across the dark marble floor,

a floor where odalisques’ bare

skin was revealed by

the artist’s brush,

the way Gauguin

unclothed his vahine.

 

The furnace once used to heat

water was perfect for baking,

the owner said ¡A pedir de boca!

 

I was told as a child

the real story

behind these arched doors,

how after their ablutions,

families rested over

carpet-covered benches,

drinking dark tea & sampling

the same pastries my Aunt Zekiye

brought yearly

in her luggage,

all the way from Damascus.

 

Private spaces where mothers

could find a bride for their sons

making sure their curves

weren’t fake,

measuring the fullness

of their chest

& the width of their hips.

 

First published by Sukoon Literary Journal

From The Taste of the Earth (Press 53 2019)

 

 

 

After Twenty-Five Years

 

I came to Beirut to retrace my steps but its warmth enveloped me in its ample mantle through streets I didn’t recognize; mushrooming bridges and roads led me to Phoenician bronze letters gracing the Corniche railings. I caught glimpses of a façade’s laced arcades vivid in my dreams, its twin sister’s face disfigured by bullet holes.

Here and there, a jogger runs along the Promenade. Steeped in lost footsteps, the water seems darker as though hiding painful memories. Only the vendor of crisp sesame breads makes me feel at home; with a smile, he fills my kaak with fragrant zaatar. We won’t linger in a café to sense the sea’s mist suffused with bitterness, hear the stories of the wind; instead we go to the new Friday’s. 

I wish I’d pace the streets to gather some crumbs of what I miss the most, the traces of a city hiding within a city hidden under my eyelids. This is not what the heart remembers, I say to myself until the jacaranda’s blue light anchors me back, whispering, yes, it’s here, deep inside, fluttering like a dove’s wings.

 

First published by Sukoon Literary Journal

From The Taste of the Earth (Press 53 2019)