» Poetry
Surviving//Skin
In America, I imagine
Noah after the flood; see
his old hands burrow
into the land, the lost
parent finds his child. Dalida
and Fairuz and Imam all sing
of the land, but I know
not the difference between soil
and skin. Still, I swallow whole
that which does not love me. In New Cairo,
I lost God. In Old Cairo, I pray
to concrete and hanging wood. My mother texts me.
Today, it is 41 degrees Celsius
in all of Cairo. I ignore white people
who try to explain Fahrenheit.
Connecticut makes me
grateful for the weather
back home. I am puzzled
by New England
architecture. I have no windows
to pray to. February in this country
numbs my fingers, makes me
forget where my blood
flows. I spit extra hard
at the ground when it’s snowing
and I’m smoking just to spite whiteness
itself. I’m still around. I can leave
a mark. Even as I kill myself
I am still surviving
you.