Tassneem A

[I] The shock

sneaking, all day,

up your spirit

The recognition of

the soul before

the mind

Yet when it slams

into you, it

bruises

 

          [I. a.] The sleep deprivation

          (this will follow you)—

          old room, twin beds

          with sloping mattresses 

          like upside-down hills

          The sleep comes in fits,  

          You think of hope

          of miracles

          Tomorrow

          is always brighter the night before

 

[II]Death of the feet

creeping up slow, 

infinitesimal. You think it’s the chemo

Isn’t that what the doctors blame everything on?

Rolled sleeves, your hand on her back

Move like a puppet when instructed

Hands full with her elbow, a frail forearm, 

incapable of holding awkwardness or feeling—

only this steadying force

 

[III] Car ride

Creeps the death

up the thighs so the body doesn’t run

A fussy breath is 

better than none 

The dim flicker dances,

that leftover childish belief of

the hospital will help

 

[IV] The hospital

          Beige, white-lit corridors.

Hushed. We can’t.

Pain management?

Mother and kin

holding, held

in reverse

          [IV. a.] Maybe tomorrow

          will find a way

 

[V] The slow sneak

beneath hopeful veneer of delusion

clogs your throat; you can only

breathe on the phone

Tell me, habibti.

Fight for evenness.

She…She’s not

Aware. Not really.

 

[VI] Sister’s new home

A first visit

So many new things on this dismal trip

A hot shower on the 4th of January

then the frigid, desert wind of Cairo cliffs slapping you

Water rejuvenates, and tomorrow

you’ll be there and sit with her, travel extended,

shifts decided

Dinner is baladi bread and za’atar steeped in olive oil, sips of water

Hospitals have a way

of dulling gnawing stomachs

 

[VII] First phone call, the son

Her heart, khalto

         Background noise. Hold. 

            Don’t panic. They’ll bring her back.

    …

She’s back! She’s back.

 

[VIII] Breathing. Unsure, still dinner

Second phone call descends

    like a raptor

    …Didn’t I—a shaky breath—didn’t I tell you…

    

 

    T’eishy enty

    

    [VIII. a.] You watch your mother,

    but she’s the sister

    and you don’t know how to comfort a sister

    not in grief

    and you worry for your mother

    because she is yours

    and your cousins just 

    lost theirs

 

 

 

[IX] Shock slams. Abates. Slams.

The morgue and the washing—the split second before the last look, you

          think your legs 

won’t hold you up—and the buttery dawn light swirling the dust mites

in front of your face amidst the large swathes of Cairo roads

and the mosque, the basement bathroom, and the terrible hollow ache 

of something that once was and now isn’t, and—

Your grandfather’s grave

right across hers

You, too young a witness then, but not now,

and the grief pours into

and out of you 

in its adult form

 

[X] In sleep,

you see her face,

wake up with the imprint

of her soft hand in yours,

the echo of her voice,

that question, the plea, still ringing

          When will we go home?

 

[XI] Funeral

Shake hands, swallow others’ waterfalls

blink at the sky when 

the water begins to seep 

through crevices

hug her twin—your aunt

Somehow, this departure has made everyone hers

 

[XII] The Blur

of hotels and a seaside apartment from childhood

steeped in bittersweet reunion and graveyard incense

          The Alexandrian streets are hers too

The airport sparks your nerves, like a severing

Going back, leaving the land—leaving her?

          There’s white noise between your ears every time you try to sleep

Hold another wake, wear white 

 

[XIII] Dream of her

White noise smooths over

 

[XIV] Return

to life

millimeter by millimeter

          [XIV. a.] Watch TV

          A funeral

          The character weeps

          Weep too, feel the ache

          take root again

          It’s only ever lay dormant

 

[XV] No one warns you

that when a swallow 

takes its last dive

it takes a bit of the sky

with it.