Tareq

Tareq told me I looked
only 18 or 19

and when I showed him blurry photos of
"my wedding"
he told me my husband was a lucky man.

We talked all the way to Hama,
about movies,
about life
and Tareq told me to be careful
as men in Syria could be dangerous.

I didn't tell him about my trouble with the taxi driver
I wanted him to think I was tough
that I could take care of myself
probably because
that's what I needed to believe.

Tareq took me out to dinner
in his villiage
just outside of Damascus
after I had seen the snow covered mountains of Northern Lebannon
and the barbed wire enclosed Baalbek
taking the Hezbollah bedecked bus from under a bridge
in Beiruit
back to this sunkissed city
of deep fried cauliflower, mozaic courtyards
and kind strangers.

Tareq told me I was beautiful
and that he wished to remember the perfect moment
of our meeting forever

but not in the way you'd think

(unless you know a lot about young Syrian men
whose english has been learnt
from Hollywood romance stories
and YouTube videos)

and when it got late
and his cousin's taxi had left
and I was afraid that
maybe I wasn't so tough after all
the city lights of Damascus
and my hotel room for one seeming so far away

his gentle calm and big brown eyes said more
than his strangely idiomatic language
and I knew he was safe

but with his city now on fire
and blood in the streets
no such safety is assured

and that scarf I let him buy me in the souk
so bright,
so unlike anything I would have chosen for myself
hangs on my coat stand
with other precious memories

of sunkissed cities
and kind strangers

and big brown eyes
in cities now on fire.

The Living And The Dead

We slept upstairs,
in the attic
in sleeping bags on a hard wood floor

David was always naked
naked cooking quinoa
naked in the sun doing downward dog

naked when he asked me
in the middle of the night
to give him a cuddle

I exhaled extra loudly
to give the illusion
of a deep deep sleep

JC was dying
brain tumors
had forced his eyes
to search
for each other
each pupil straining
to face the other
so that he always looked confused

but I think he was more clear
about a lot of things
than
those of us
looking straight ahead.

He was out of hospital
wild hair
and red hoodie
fishermans pants
so calm

the goji juice was from the himilayas
and it was going to cure him
they said

and we walked,
barefoot
the hundred meters to Venice Beach
which you could see from the front porch
once the haze had lifted


I heard later that he died

I was already in New York
fully clothed
swept up by the rush rush

and I had forgotton the calm

until just now,
now,
when a man with wild hair
and eyes,
each searching for the other

calmly told of how he had seen his family
killed

as a rooster
an ugly rooster squarked
it's cry echoing
over the water filled canoe
suspended in the air


calm rising out of chaos
those searching eyes
the story that must be told
and heard
and retold
and held within

what if i could turn my own eyes
inward
roll them around to face each other
to examine
what story it is behind them
to not loose sight

the chaos, outstretched in front
the calm within

we are cursed to see
and not see

to know
and not know

to remember
and forget

wild hair

I can see them now,

those eyes
that see the living
and the dead

that in the midst of chaos
can still find
calm.

Home

The house is full of toothbrushes

and MacBooks

and the smell of coffee in the morning.

In the evenings

bowls are crammed with

condiments and canned goods;

we're always cooking for one

but at least we're eating together.

On Christmas Day, Looking At The Sea

The sea
is electric blue
and the cicadas keep me company
whilst the sensible
leave the midday sun
and head for cover.

Everything is high def,
every grain of sand heightened
the crisp white ocean foam
and the seagulls standing in my footprints
leading to the water's edge.

There's no one here
but me,
and my enjoyment of the elements
the oven hot breeze
the salty air.

But
I'm enjoying it enough
for all my absent friends

sending them all my
Christmas love
as I gaze
at the endless horizon.

If We Stitch Ourselves Together, We'll Never Be Alone

I'm waiting for him in the rain,
umbrella unopened
hair
wet and heavy


I could easily duck under the shelter
of a Brunswick St
shopfront

but it seems more romantic this way

my lashes dripping
eyes searching
every passer by
for the familiar,

'Hello, darling'.

Then, they arrive
in matching helmets,
an unexpected
double happiness

and we eat burgers
and talk about boys.

Later that night,
we're perched
on the side of my
unmade bed
collaborating over
the transformation
of a white lace dress

and I enjoy
the closeness

thick as thieves

tearing up the stitches
but
sewing something
more important
deliberately,
carefully

a friendship
of rainy street meetings
and
confessions
sharing the ridiculous
and the profound

and a white lace dress,
with the potential to be
so much more.


(For my friend Russ Pirie, let the stitches never come undone)

It's Science, Or Something

I like the way he looks at me.

It makes me feel better.
About myself,
about everything.

And I know that probably
makes me sound
shallow,
self obsessed,
needy-
some days I am all of those things.

Some days I couldn't
give a fuck,

but today's not one of those days.

We lock in like Lego.
We tessellate.
It's science.
Or geometry,
something like that.

Together we are an equation
that has both a
right and a
wrong answer.

It's mathematical.

It adds up
or
it
doesn't.