Besmellah

By SARA ELKAMEL 


1. They said that hiding in a pomegranate is a grain that opens the gates to heaven.

2. Habayet el-janna or grain of heaven. 

3.  Are we talking about every pomegranate // why is it hiding // what if it slips // can you tell it is who it is or do you have to wait until yawm el-sa’a or day of the hour to know // only one // does it look like a key // is heaven gated // is it also red // does it work if you drink it // like juice // does it stay in your body // what stays in your body // does your body // stay in itself // where is this written // on our bodies // in our palms // or the insides of our ears // good hiding place.

4. Right by the kitchen there was a hole in the floor we squeezed shit into. Pomegranate skin fell on tiles impressed with burnt turquoise, burnt orange. The birds were brought down here for killing: we loved to watch. Alone in the light a hallway and a few doors down was the really black radio singing words of god.

5. I sat beside it alone in the light. Listen. gardens of grapevines                   olives                                     and pomegranates.

6. An invitation to look for lessons in yield.

7. Are they keys or are they lessons?

pomegranate

[Purchase Issue 15 here.]

Sara Elkamel is a journalist and poet, living between Cairo and New York. She holds an M.A. in arts and culture journalism from Columbia University. Her writing has appeared in The Guardian, The Huffington Post, The GroundTruth Project, Guernica, Ahram Online, and elsewhere. 

Besmellah

Related Posts

Black and white image of a bird with a long neck

Dispatch from Marutha Nilam

SAKTHI ARULANANDHAM
With the swiftness and dexterity / of a hawk that pounces upon a chicken / and takes it by force, / the bird craves / snapping up a vast terrain / with its powerful, sharp beak / and flying away with it. // When that turns out to be impossible, / in the heat of its great big sigh, / all the rivers dry up.

Tripas Book Cover

Excerpt from Tripas

BRANDON SOM
One grandmother with Vicks, one with Tiger Balm, rubbed / fires of camphor & mint, old poultices, / into my chest: their palms kneading & wet with salve, / its menthols, to strip the chaff & rattle in a night wheeze. Can you / hear their lullabies?

Blue cover of There is Still Singing in the Afterlife

Four Poems by JinJin Xu

JINJIN XU
my mother, my father. / Her skinny blue wrists, his ear caressing a cigarette. In the beginning, / it is already too late, but there is hunger & no time / to waste. All they need are six hands, three mouths, a clockwork / yearning for locks of their own, windows square & fresh.