(after Safia Elhillo)
Once, in a stolen land that wanted
my name dead, I knew
nothing of drums and strings. Once,
I could not wake if Imam
did not bring the sun to my
cursed bed. If nothing else, I listened
carefully, heard Abdel Wahab
trick their colonial
ass. This is the rhythm of unflinching,
the sea as still
as night—we like it that way.
Here, I ask Mama again
what she needs but a radio
and she still says: batteries,
and well-pressed clothes for my child—
just so we look good when we cry
to Om Kalthoum. Once,
in a stolen land that wished
my tongue in the ocean, I could
not explain what it meant to cry
without tragedy. Now,
I hold Mama’s hand as we weep
to his crooning. I raise
my hand; a request—سواح.
He smiles and asks me: for what?
We are here now, habibi.
Then for old time’s sake, I plead,
for chorus of memory,
percussion as cool as dew.
And so me and Mama cry
with Abdel Halim, as we
did with Fairuz, and every
song that brought the breath back to
an empty chest. Once, I spent
a lifetime incapable
of drawing a map home, but
والله
I have always known what it
sounds like.
