dates from Baghdad's airport
fatly nested in paper sleeves
all that city's sweetness
in our stomachs far away not there
chew another before the first is swallowed and
look to the sea!
look away from the sea!
sunlight on paper face
sunlight on telephone wire
sunlight a puddle this ocean to nowhere
[where once i saw a turtle and never again]
ceiling of orthodox blue of pressed powder of spilled ink
the tiny window with its tiny colors and child's hand
i am elsewhere my skin a buzz
urinate while squatting
here! a small saucer for your tears
a small cup of loam for your teeth
a wall of concrete sinks
i am not the same
and from your pocket your hand
and from your hand a small lamb
my lover my thief
fish fat on carob leaf
kisses of fish fat
our velvet mouths
open dumb to close so sweet
Sylvie Robinson is a junior at AUB majoring in anthropology and sociology. She has been previously published by Inklette Magazine and the Academy of American Poetry and is a recipient of the 2018 Academy of American Poetry Prize.
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