Graffiti Eyes

Amirah Al Wassif


Amirah’s poems have appeared in several prints and online publications including South Florida Poetry, Birmingham Arts Journal, Hawaii Review, the Meniscus, the Chiron Review, The Hunger, Writers Resist, Right Now and several other publications.

If you give me your eyes

If you give me your eyes,
you may become blind, but i swear I'll take care of them.
I'll wash them every night from filth and grief
I'll keep them from agony and salty tears.
If you give me your eyes,
You may won't see again
But i assure you that it is a little thing to lose
I'll hung them on God's tree, and let them watch
All the directions of heaven and hell
And they'll dig under the sacred tree with sense of humour and curiosity
They'll figure out how to peek into the chest of the truth, without pretending that you are a learned man.
If you give me them, I'll take your eyes for a walk, we'll be stoned and delighted through our walking between God's arms
We'll laugh from the bottom of our hearts, we'll measure the distance between the awesomeness and beauty.
If you lend me them, I won't give them back to you, how dare I? While we're on our way to put the seeds of tomorrow.
If you give me your own eyes, I'll let you see my paradise where all the scientists set by their inventions looking in amaze, wondering how small their eyes to the eye of God.
Where they all thinking is that eye is the sun? Is that eye is the moon?
If you give me your eyes,
I'll knead them like the pugs, and I'll gather their ashes wrapped it in a precious kerchief, 
if you do that, I'll free your eyes from the darkness slavery, and let they plunge in the brightness of the horizon.

Prayers on our house roof

My mother's laughter clutched the heart of my ears.
She was gossiping with her neighbour, knocking softly on my body with her delicious words.
Although, my mother doesn't know how to write, her telling is as sweet as poetry.
I love to watch their tongues playing music that called a conversation.
My mother and her neighbour were working on their knees; their chests pump gladly, their noses coloured by the smoke.
For us boiling bananas equals praying
We murmurs with verses, we sing with faces up
We live in our own paradise, making art through peeling bananas, slicing it into pieces of heaven, boiling it on the fire, hoping for a kiss on a cheek from a bird, or an old hymn bathe the exhausted soul.
I was sitting on my mother's hip, my special view that overlooking the cavern of God
There, where i could spy on the kingdom of mercy
I saw god cooking for children like me
Just like me and the only difference is that
They are dead, but i am still alive
Every time we boiling bananas, i watched god preparing the dinner table for the dead children
He was feeding them sweetly
I felt the warmth of their soup, i touched the magic of their setting
Every time I ran to my mother, crying in childish tone saying that i saw god cooking for dead children.
My mother smiles and completes her talking with her neighbour
I yelled at my mother, but she smiled again.
Then, i kept watching and spying
God who was making delicious food upstairs, one hundred children on their knees looking forward to tasting the yummy dishes.
I was waving to them, smiling at them, but they didn't notice me at all.
They were gathered around the God, in longing, in awe,
I have always wondered if god boiling bananas for the children like what our mothers do for us.
And i imagined many times how delicious it is.
The smell of our rooftop carries a kind of hope.
Under my little bare feet, bananas peel and two bowls, one for us and the other for the hungery people in our neighborhood.
It became a habit since we all heard of
one hundred children dying of hunger.

One hundred innocent souls vanished; disappeared, all my folk said that, but i swear to them, i swear to my mother that i saw god cooking for the dead children , but they said nothing, just kept smiling at me.