هجرة
I move differently now, with my hands
nestled into the valley of my hips
my lips blush bubblegum pink my eyes two watchful moons
I smile with her smile and open
the door of new land
with her hands
(my mother)
Over the years I’ve watched countries
emerge from her body once flat land. I’d like to roll her
back into my own
in the safety of my body her birth place
where strangers
do not mispronounce her name and the word
“love” is not watered down I wish to tell her
stay here & be content out there
your hair will be touched by someone else
at twenty-five I unlearned my first language
with his body white color of the inside of
a peach his hands nestled into the valley of my hips
and stayed. He plunged into me like God’s breath
and left like a tender word. I was so naive I forgot
to tell him the translation of my name
I forgot to tell him that I was supposed to wait.
I have a girl woman once the size of my palm
I am a temple now sometimes
cracked at the sides
still standing. The people they come and admire
the preservation of my skin colors of sand &
heritage in her absence I tell them come
come & take I am looking to give love as I have
always done, drink water from my bare hands
and sleep tucked under my pits I know you
are just looking for belonging my youth has been
resurrected elsewhere if you visit her you will see
there is a God
Nardine Taleb is an Egyptian-American writer and speech-language pathologist based in Cleveland. She graduated from Case Western Reserve University where she received The Finley Foster/Emily M Hills Poetry Award for best poem or group of poems (2015), and the Edith Garber Krotinger Prize for best short story (2017) from the Department of English. She was a finalist in Gordon Square Review‘s prose contest last fall and a runner-up for their poetry contest this spring. She is a Brooklyn Poets Fellowship finalist for the summer of 2020.
Emerge Literary Journal 