YOU CANNOT KNOW ME

A POEM

You cannot know me.

 

Today there is no good news

There is no joy to be had

No use whining over milk half full

Last night I threw the glass

 

If we’re close to ceasing fire

The trumpets aren’t yet heard

I’m simply melting in the heat

Drowning on the verge

 

The rain is marking time

But time no long matters

The only song I can discern

Is history’s screeching laughter

 

Where did my daughter go

For years I haven’t seen her

I hope she’s somewhere dancing slow

To jazz high above the ether

 

I pray I go with her soon

But I know it’s not my turn

So I wade in the southern heat

With nothing on my tongue but yearn

 

There is no hate in my heart for man

Just simple, dull disdain

Just callous feet to kick my husband

Who gave my goats away

 

I have no fight left in me

The futility of resistance

I put down my sugar knives

When my sweet girl went missing

 

I am through cutting cane

Grinding hope out soul’s plantation

Chewing on tobacco

Just to spit out old worn patience

 

History’s a low down thief

I hope I can outlast him

Because I know If I try outrun em

I will fall into his bastion

 

I once lived outside him

On the margins of his pastures

I once held my daughter in the bosom of my rapture

 

I had not asked for a good life

Daily bread nor light romance

I just thought if I ever gave my girl away

The pain might accompany slow dance

 

I’ve put my black to sleep

I left my scarf upon the alter

I have pulled my soul

From that safe place

In the crevice of Gibraltar

 

I will not give my testimony

As I stand outside of time

I will not beg for pulp

As I swallow the last rind

 

What you’ve taken you cannot return

Yet I bear no malice

I pour no wine in your dark wake

Long ago I broke the chalice

 

I simply hope when your good thing

ends

As good things end with time

When your good thing falls upon the floor

Joining all good things of mine

 

That at first you barely notice

Then all at once you start your mourning

Then you compose yourself

Enact the rites

And pray relief comes in the morning

 

And when history does not show up

As she seldom does when you most need her

That you fall to your knees

Believing as fools do

That humility might please her

And when she strikes you down in shame

As you cannot exalt her

I hope you are deafened by the fading jazz

Of the music of my daughter.

 

Only then will you know me.

—— for Yasmeen, for Syria.