Pizza with Light Bulb

Mama made the best Lebanese pizza: soft, thick,
with olives, mushrooms, ash’awan cheese,
and ketchup instead of pizza sauce.

But that night there was something
different about it. We knew
one should never complain
about home-made food,
so we crunched and swallowed,
washed it down with Pepsi,
until she heard the glass shards
under our teeth. She opened the oven,
found out the light in there had
burst. The doctor on the phone
said the only side effect
would be our asses lighting up
at night. It was a practical thing, after all,
to turn into lightning bugs
with the electricity gone
from midnight until 6 AM.

 

Zeina Hashem Beck is a Lebanese poet whose first collection, To Live in Autumn (The Backwaters Press, 2014), has won the 2013 Backwaters Prize. It was also a runner up for the Julie Suk Award, a category finalist for the 2015 Eric Hoffer Awards, and has been included on Split This Rock’s list of recommended poetry books for 2014. She’s been nominated twice for the Pushcart Prize, and her poems have been published in various literary magazines, among which are Ploughshares, Poetry Northwest, Nimrod, The Common, MiznaRattle, 32 PoemsMslexia, and Magma. She lives with her husband and two daughters in Dubai, where she regularly performs her poetry and runs the poetry and open collective PUNCH.

 

 

Pizza with Light Bulb

Related Posts

Mesquite plant

July 2021 Poetry Feature: Burlin Barr

BURLIN BARR
but the wolf tree was there and there was a place where // trophies hung: entire / bodies slung there in semi permanence // turning into everything / imaginable between a fresh body and shit and a variety // of trash; except Otis; he kept his right in front / of the house even

Recife, Brazil

Translation: Poems by Lara Solórzano Damasceno

LARA SOLÓRZANO DAMASCENO
Nosotras, who for millennia have steered warships, / sailing through seas made invisible. / Nosotras, who walked barefoot through valleys of stinging nettle, had our name ripped from the book of history / our biography from the scientific treatises

Ice fishing

June 2021 Poetry Feature

CORRIE WILLIAMSON
You lamented the absence of a human sound for longing, / like the loon has, like the wolf. I think of you reading / to your donkey the day he died, the passage where Odysseus / kisses the soil, how the beast moved away from you, / stood quietly in the clover, then returned...