Khaleej Times #1

By REWA ZEINATI

the war drove us out—
and into my father’s used white sedan—
a school drop-off I’d hoped none
of the other kids would notice—

(their engines a roar of paid drivers).
everyone was from somewhere else

even the locals we called lawakel,
even if they were someone we could never be.

summer months went on
for years—this is a city,

we were told, and we almost
believed it—this is how sand

becomes gold, we were taught,
and we almost envied it.

and every december, around christmas,
we’d turn the chiller all the way up

and pretend it was winter.
this was my brother’s idea—

to hide under the covers
and wait for the gifts.
  

 

Rewa Zeinati is the recipient of the 2020 Edward Stanley Award for poetry, the founding editor of Sukoonmagazine, and the author of the poetry chapbook Bullets & Orchids. Her poems and essays are found in a number of national and international journals and anthologies. She lives and works in Metro Detroit.

[Purchase Issue 22 here.] 

From the beginning, The Common has brought you transportive writing and exciting new voices. We are committed to supporting writers and maintaining free, unrestricted access to our website, but we can’t do it without you. Become an integral part of our global community of readers and writers by donating today. No amount is too small. Thank you!

Khaleej Times #1

Related Posts

A photograph of leaves and berries

Ode to Mitski 

WILLIAM FARGASON
while driving today     to pick up groceries / I drive over     the bridge where it would be  / so easy to drive     right off     the water  / a blanket to lay over     my head     its fevers  / I do want to live     most days     but today / I don’t     I could     let go of the wheel  

The Month When I Watch Joker Every Day

ERICA DAWSON
This is a fundamental memory. / The signs pointing to doing something right / and failing. Educated and I lost / my job. Bipolar and I cannot lose / my mind. The first responder says I’m safe. / Joaquin Phoenix is in the hospital. / I’m in my bedroom where I’ve tacked a sheet...

Image of glasses atop a black hat

Kaymoor, West Virginia

G. C. WALDREP
According to rule. The terrible safeguard / of the text when placed against the granite / ledge into which our industry inscribed / itself. We were prying choice from the jaws / of poverty, from the laws of poverty. / But what came out was exile.