Hey there cancer pills—
though you give life and kill my illness
my hair falls out like an angel
descending into a sinful city.

I have nothing left
since locusts attacked the farm
and Uncle became allergic to air pollution
after moving to Kabul.

My indisposed body desires red wine
to pour into a head filled with memories of you.
It wants to burn a cigarette and watch
as such beauty strikes the darkness.

Have you ever wondered about the peaceful
highways where tired taxi drivers rest?
Maybe I am tired…
and you are a glass of bitter black tea
that makes me moan like a wounded insect.

Maybe you are inelegant…                                              
and I am inspiration
making your emotions affordable. 
Do you remember that painter?  

What a couple he said, a comely combination
of gray and happy colors on his canvas.  
You shined neatly
but I was busy thinking

about how to pay for Uncle’s medicines.  
The other day Uncle and I bought cheap ripe peaches
I thought of you with every bite
as the national bank defaulted.

The absolute silence of political history
reminds me of my stupidity—
I want you and nothing more
nothing less.

Since you are my over-the-top edge
of the feeling called attachment
from which I’ll soon be detaching.

By Hajar

Photo by Francesco Pappalardo