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 years 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.
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.