Refocused

with a broken fridge,
 limitations on dry ice,
 and carpool circles
 
 to pick up daughter
 from uncalled-for punishment,
 my Monday sucked ass.
 
 driving home in rain,
 she told me the whole story
 and other teen truths.
 
 then shared her essay:
 perfectly satirical
 (writer at fourteen)
 
 the rain flooded us
 and we laughed until we cried
 knowing that truth hurts.
 

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I Cry for his Loss

i cry for the card, for his loss,
 for his Iraqi-Syrian past,
 for all the burning hours of summer school
 where he committed himself
 to finishing high school in three years.
 
 i cry for his words, for his loss,
 his inescapable self that has hidden
 a kind face in a chaotic classroom,
 his sly smile catching my every
 snuck-in witty remark
 (even when no one else could).
 
 i cry for the system, for his loss,
 shuffled by our government’s wars
 between homelands that stole his home,
 for his pride in Iraqi architecture
 that he may never see again.
 
 i cry for his future, for his loss,
 for how unequivocally kind his soul remains
 after all he has witnessed in twenty-one years,
 for his brothers who wait under his watchful shadow,
 for our country to give him a chance.
 
 i cry for his words, for my loss,
 to not have his presence in my classroom,
 to have the nicest thing anyone’s
 ever written to me
 disappear with a graduation ceremony.
 
 i cry for the world, for their loss,
 for robbing refugees of their rights,
 for keeping the beauty that is him,
 that is within all of them,
 from sharing their strength
 with all of us, inshallah,
 for a brighter tomorrow.
 

Shards

an afternoon wind
 blew in a flurry of texts
 and opened this door–
 
 it knocked down a glass
 from our dishwasher-less rack
 (because all things break)
 
 it sent me spinning
 on my endless carpool trip
 (keeping up with kids)
 
 the sun was shining
 on my student-made pastry,
 unaware of shards.
 
 i swept up pieces,
 circled back to get daughter
 and wash more dishes.
 
 baklava melted
 like rays of afternoon sun
 in each of our mouths
 
 (a reminder that
 gusts of wind, circling drives
 are just shards of days)
 

Cheers to Tears

on Monday, a beer
because the cafe was closed
and i needed one

it was a sports bar
and the tears she shed were mine
in goodbye moments

(i didn’t share them–
not then, not out on the street–
only in words. here.)

because i’ve been there.
we have all been there. mothers.
sisters. wives. children.

i should have seen it.
the comings, goings of days,
built on loss and fear.

her tears were my tears.
her daughters were my daughters.
we are all the same.

Interception

art intercepts life
 on a cloudy Denver day
 at the museum
 
 social justice rules
 when we create from our souls–
 pen; paint on canvas
 
 after a long walk
 The Nightingale finally ends
 (leaving with sorrow)
 
 sorrow chases steps
 across the gray of our lives,
 of this cool spring day.
 
 but i still find hope:
 in neighborhood yard signs,
 girls getting along,
 
 in the purring cats,
 the moist grass that begs to grow,
 the chances that wait,
 
 in my daughters’ eyes,
 and the fight we all must fight
 till tomorrow comes.