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August 2019

they are so close they are a body and its ghost blossom and its branch   her own arcing over his prone her owning him nothing and every   she holds him in the hot grip of legs he gives into sweet imperial   riding she widening curtains of his shirt to nest in a theater of fur   around them the voices buried in wires listen though elsewhere people   tweeze bullet shells and gloves finger the ash of neighbors after still   another massacre and though reporters note the absence of outrage of Afghanis   to the latest outrage and the war’s locked in so many closets and bodies   OUR COUNTRY OUR COUNTRY AND NOTHING BUT tangle the tango lying to rise as dark falls and cherry blooms   text their wireless perfume to the account of

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Poetry
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Baltimore was developed chiefly with Masrah Ensemble in Beirut, Lebanon, and Page 73 in New Haven, Connecticut, in 2014. Fadi Tofeili translated a version of the play into Arabic. Fragments have been performed at Little Theater, Hearth Gods, Alwan for the Arts, and a living room in New York. Clare Barron, Daniel Balabane, Emily Hoffman, and Eyad Houssami have been essential collaborators at various stages.   Masrah Ensemble (مسرح انسمبل) is a nonprofit theatre company and organization that makes, develops, and fosters research and criticism of theatre with a focus on the Arab stage. Based in Beirut, Lebanon, the Ensemble aims to

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Drama
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My head is below my arms, and my face is drooped low into the toilet bowl. My hands, which were once gripping tightly onto the sides of the toilet bowl, are now placed gently on the rims. Sometimes it’s different; sometimes I am hunched over the sink with my toothbrush in my hand. If I don’t want the hardness of it, I use my middle finger instead, pressed tightly against my index finger. Right before I do anything, I look at myself in the mirror and convince myself one last time why I need to do this, and that it’s more than a need: it’s a cure that will jump-start my day,

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Non-Fiction
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The cars were aligned haphazardly along the sides of the usually-serene street. The sun’s amber rays hugged the street’s sidewalks, permeating the air with benevolence. Cats waltzed on the sidewalks as pedestrians skedaddled around; Matne Street was unusually crowded and buzzing with life. The street deliberately bear-hugged a rather squalid area on the outskirts of Mar Elias, and I always thought my street suffered greatly from being a bold lifeline between a popular shopping street and a filth-strewn wormhole. At two p.m., grocers barked orders to Syrian kids, and the infamous plumbers – who had long conquered the sidewalk – still

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Non-Fiction
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