Sam Hamod


You run your
hand     just so
very slowly
over the dark sewn fabric of this
Bedouin dress – you feel
three thousand years rough up
against the color of your
skin      against the colors of your
memory          you tell me
“When I wear this dress
I always come out
red”      and I,
looking at the
rustle in you, say
“You must look good
all red”         and the
brightness of your
hair       is lit up by the shine of
your eyes        so predictable
a beauty    but your laughter
always surprising
and new
like this
dress     so many
in the making
with so many hidden     desert places
so many deep crevices
in the heart






Sam Hamod – please see author’s full bio on the home page, in additional works, and on the author’s page.

Correction Jounieh, Lebanon

Marian Haddad


Actually, nobody was screaming.
Not that I saw.        I saw the boy,
quiet bird, shaking, eyes wide
open. And next to him, the old.
One is three. The other, eighty-three,
or more. The older man sits, coiled
on a mattress, wheezing into
a mask. Wheezing into          
himself. The heavy breath,
weighty in its travel
to the lungs and from them. 
Thin, frail, white-haired man.
His wife stands, quiet, up against
a wall.  She does not speak
but stares straight         at him, and he
is bent over his thin and folded body,
this body, heavy with his breathing.            
She           is not crying,               she      
is not moving.  A stone could not lie         
this still. Fear closes the mouth.      
Nobody is speaking. The boy. The man.
His wife.                   But behind them
the chorus of chaos –
people bringing in bodies –
And outside the flames.


please see Marian Haddad’s full biographical information in her additional works in the SPRING ISSUE, and on her Author’s page.

* first published in Bat City Review