What I Learned When The Birds Flew Away

I like you better when you’re naked, out of

suits buttoned up shirts, almost like a child,

that easy to love. But you look at me as men

do, while the curls on your chest wrap around

my fingers. I take shade off of lamps to see you better

with, put glasses on, know then nothing

is touching you but the hands of me, the hip bone

on hip bone of the thrusting us.

I like you better when you’re drunk enough to kiss

each of my eye lids, my mouth even

though people are watching. You rub the knot

of my neck, slip your cold hand across the back

of me, you keep it there as if trying to find

something to belong to.

I like you better, when you’re definite like rolling

R’s on Spanish tongues, not smelling the sweet

frosty way she does, or looking at your watch

after we’ve only just made love.

The sky is blank then, the canvas of a crippled artist,

no flock of birds- reminders of migration, movement

beyond what no longer works – what is, always is, never

better.

First Rejection Letter...Not So Bad.

Dear Shideh: 

Thank you for sending us "Go, Go Fatty" for the short fiction contest.

Although your story did not make our top 10 finalists, it came very close. We were quite impressed by the humanity in your writing, particularly in the scene with Mrs. Lou and the narrator.

Thanks for sending us your work. Best of luck placing your story elsewhere. 

Sincerely,
Jill Meyers
Editor

Zanmi Lakay

We are all aware by now of the events that have taken place in Haiti, and the hundreds and thousands of people who have been affected by this. I had the privilege of attending a yoga class, a benefit for Haiti, and met an amazing woman, Jennifer Pantaleon, who runs a non-profit organization called Zanmi Lakay. Jennifer has been going to Haiti for years now, helping street children by improving their educational and economic opportunities, as well as providing photography workshops as a means of self expression for them. Things were bad before the earthquake, and now leaving for Haiti in the next week, she's not sure which of her kids she will find when she gets there.

I know times are tough right now, but things could be a lot worse for us all, so I'm asking you to donate anything you can to the work of Zanmi Lakay (Jennifer is a volunteer, so all your donations would go strictly to the kids). Below you'll find a link to the website as well as a donor link, please let me know if you have any questions or problems with your donations. Also, if you can please forward this to your friends and family it would be greatly appreciated. Thanks so much for your time, and I'm sure we can all take a little step to make a big difference in the lives of these children.

Best,

Shideh

https://zanmilakay.donortools.com/

http://www.zanmilakay.org/

Like Your Hips Sway - A Poem For Haiti

The bones were found under the rubble,

the once swaying hip bones of yours,

the parts of you already suffering,

even before the ceilings crumbled, the

buildings collapsed into your bodies,

because there was never enough food to eat.

There is no medicine,

no room in the hospitals.

Dead bodies on the streets

lay still uncovered, even after a week

of the after shock.

Where do you put them? Where is there a

place big enough to fit all this sadness?

And here, we say Namaste and do your

Afro-Haitan dance moves with our eyes closed

on yoga mats placed two inches apart,

because there is not enough space

in this room for everyone’s love for you.

We give everything

we can, not because we know you,

but because those are your bones, your houses, 

your country. Because we want to see you dance again,

to rise from what has fallen, let your hips sway again

like the wild winds of this shaking Earth.

Feeling Kind Of Sexy...

 

One Night Stand - A Love Poem

He fell down the stairs in my apartment tonight,

because the lights were off and all he could see

was his own reflection in the mirror across

from the stairs. I thought it was the way to the

bathroom, he says, hopping his way

back into my room. 

You would know where the bathroom is.

You would have things in my bathroom.

A toothbrush, the pages of my magazines

folded where you think the girls are hot.

A special mirror to see things closely with.

You would have your own shelf filled with

the floss you forget to use.

His pain is not turning me on. His pain makes it difficult to enjoy

any of this. And now he’s next to me in this bed

where you used to sleep, where you used to put your

hand on my belly and tell me you wanted to plant things in there.

He’s naked under my covers with

an aching knee. Painful, I’m sure, but he just won’t shut up

about it. I start touching him so he will, below the waist where

it counts, and he gets quiet. But it doesn’t feel right

in my hand. And when I kiss behind his ear, he doesn’t

seem to like it the way you do, keeps trying to pull me towards

his mouth. And all the time I want to taste the crystal salts

of your skin again, like being pulled under a wave and my feet

not touching anything, to know that you keep

a space for me in your life, maybe even the size of the

crescent moon of a clipped finger nail, or perhaps a whole

finger, or one of your hands, just in case things are

different one day, just in case people do change and you

think of planting things again.

But this guy. This guy whose name keeps

slipping my mind, like a bar of leftover soap,

all tangled up with hair, and his aching knee,

his horribly aching knee, it all feels a little, a little unlike

you. You’ve never broken a bone. Never twisted any

part of yourself.

And I think for a second what the point

of all this is. If only to feel loved

for just one night? If only to write even one poem?

Look At These...