Hameed 1 Ordinary Weapons by Sarah Machelle Hameed A thesis submitted in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of MASTER OF ARTS IN ENGLISH WEBER STATE UNIVERSITY Ogden, Utah April 23, 3034 Approved ______________________________ Laura Stott* ______________________________ Abraham Smith * ______________________________ Ryan Ridge* Hameed 2 Between Lines of Loss: Poetry as an Ordinary Weapon Through Memory and Grief “Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine. Meanwhile the world goes on.”— Mary Oliver Grief is a universal theme: it is a dependably human experience. For grief is not always mourning literal death: we often find ourselves grieving lost innocence, or deferred hope. This collection, then, is an invitation to journey through the emotional landscapes that define our very humanity. It is a reflection of the personal impetus to confront and embrace the complexities of love and loss, to find meaning in the midst of chaos. In sharing these poems, the aim is not just to tell a story but to resonate with the reader on a fundamental level in which their own experiences of love and loss might be seen and validated. This collection is an ode to that shared humanity, to the beauty and the pain that come with loving and losing, and to the poetry that emerges from the spaces in between. Writing helped me process the loss of my first love and loved ones, and in many ways it created a space to step into. And within this space, poetry creates a realm where any emotion (in this case, grief) can be experienced with potential healing. C.S. Lewis says in his book A Grief Observed: In grief, nothing ‘stays put.’ One keeps on emerging from a phase, but it always recurs. Round and round. Everything repeats…how often will the vast emptiness astonish me like a complete novelty and make me say, “I never realized my loss till this moment”? The same leg is cut off time after time (Lewis). Though grief does not always pertain to mourning death specifically, in my case, the recurrent ‘leg’ symbolizes the loss of the first guy I ever fell for. Through my poetry, I experience the loss again and again, showing the same plaguing repetition outlined by Lewis. My poetry finds its genesis in the aftermath, charting a course through grief and memory. It is here, in the delicate dance between holding on and letting go, that the words within these pages seek to find their Hameed 3 resonance, not just as mere reflections of my personal journey, but as universal truths. Despite the grief, there is still love, and it is this very capacity for boundless joy that renders the heart vulnerable to the most profound sorrows. The poems in this collection do not shy away from this duality; instead, they embrace it, weaving a narrative that acknowledges the shadow that accompanies the light. In exploring the depths of heartache and the pinnacles of affection, these poems speak to the beat of the human heart—to its capacity to break and mend, to wither and bloom. Through different verses, the poems delve into love’s complexities, revealing it not merely as a harbinger of happiness but also as a potential source of profound pain and disillusionment. In the epigraph of my thesis “Unexpected,” I articulate the sudden shock of love’s departure, capturing the sense of betrayal and abandonment that often accompanies the end of a cherished relationship. The line “Love does not leave the room gracefully” evokes a vivid image of love’s chaotic exit, leaving behind a trail of confusion and sorrow. This poem lays bare the harsh reality that love, in its departure, can dismantle the very foundation of trust and security it once built, portraying love as an entity capable of betrayal. “Foolish Love” further explores the theme by reflecting on the irrationality and risks inherent in loving deeply. The narrator’s recount of a fleeting, intense encounter in New York encapsulates the dichotomy of love’s capacity to elevate and devastate. The poem’s setting, amidst the bustling streets of New York, serves as a metaphor for the chaotic, unpredictable nature of love. The lines “I risked everything for that week” and “I let myself believe he was the only one for me” portray the vulnerability that accompanies love’s blind optimism. The poem adeptly captures the essence of love as a leap of faith, fraught with the peril of unmet expectations and eventual heartbreak. Hameed 4 My thesis explores different landscapes of loss, engaging with its various manifestations from the death of loved ones to the dissolution of relationships and the erosion of self. These themes, while distinct, are interwoven throughout the poems. The poems use the past and the space of absenteeism as inspiration to recreate and repress the speaker’s loss. In “Why Won’t With This Die?” the poem delves into the relentless struggle with memories and emotions tied to a past love. The speaker grapples with the desire for forgetfulness, longing for relief from the haunting presence of her former lover’s memory. The confession of her dance teacher juxtaposed with the speaker’s internal dialogue reflects the pervasive nature of grief and the relentless cycle of longing and despair: I wish you were dead. You thought I’d leave so easy? I wish you would. Are you okay? I’m already halfway to nowhere in this twisted dance. I wish I was dead. No longer dangling like a limp fish on a hook caught between the plunge and the crash. You tried? Everything and then more—waited and hoped. In contrast, “Foolish Love” and “New York Stories” explore the theme of loss within the context of romantic relationships. “Foolish Love” captures the poignant aftermath of a whirlwind romance, highlighting the emotional void left by unreciprocated affection. “Hazy” and “Dark Caresses” on the other hand, speaks to the self-inflicted wounds of allowing oneself to be consumed by a relationship, only to be left with “empty fantasies” and “the sound of my heart withering—silenced petals falling.” The collection addresses the loss of self, a theme subtly woven through poems like “Falling Facades.” This poem metaphorically represents the internal Hameed 5 struggle and disintegration of one’s identity in the face of external pressures or personal failures. The imagery of “stepping into this house and waiting for you to burn it on fire” symbolizes the destructive cycle of losing oneself in the pursuit of clinging to a fractured relationship. The portrayal of grief within the collection rejects the notion of a linear pathway in favor of a more realistic representation that acknowledges its unpredictability. In “Rainy Days,” the speaker reflects on the pervasive nature of grief and its ability to infiltrate the minutiae of daily life. The act of cleaning, a mundane and routine task, becomes a metaphor for the internal struggle to organize and make sense of one’s emotional turmoil. The poem illustrates how grief can manifest in the quiet moments, suggesting that healing is not about erasing the pain but learning to coexist with it. The imagery of the birds singing, “muffled by the patter of rain,” symbolizes the distant yet persistent presence of hope, even when grief feels all-consuming. “Undrowned Echoes” delves into the complexity of grief as an ongoing process, challenging the expectation of a definitive end to mourning. The poem’s title itself suggests the persistence of memory and loss, echoing indefinitely in the chambers of the heart. The line “And yet, my tears haven't been enough to drown your name” speaks to the insufficiency of outward expressions of grief to fully extinguish the pain of loss. This poem acknowledges the enduring nature of grief, suggesting that healing is not about forgetting or completely moving on but finding a way to carry the memories forward. The journey towards healing is depicted in “Redemptive Ink,” where the theme of self-reclamation and empowerment emerges from the soil of grief. This poem represents a turning point, shifting the focus from external sources of love and validation to the cultivation of self-love and inner strength. The act of writing becomes a conduit for transformation that begin to morph under the pen’s gentle guidance. Hameed 6 So I write, each word a step out of the shadows over the waters where truths find their wings— painted with promise. Through writing, the speaker’s despair is reshaped into hope. My thesis is woven with threads of diverse literary and personal influences, each strand contributing to the nuanced exploration of love, loss, and the resilience of the human heart. The confessional poetics of Sylvia Plath and the raw, emotive landscapes painted by contemporary poets such as Ada Limón have influenced my writing. Sylvia Plath’s profound impact on the realm of confessional poetry and her ability to lay bare the most intimate and often tumultuous aspects of the human experience has significantly informed the candid and introspective nature of my poems. I admire Plath’s fearless exploration of personal identity, mental health, and the complexities of the female experience where the inner turmoil are laid bare, inviting the audience into a deeply personal space. In “Lady Lazarus,” Plath crafts a powerful narrative of defiance and rebirth, with the speaker’s repeated resurrections, “I do it so it feels like hell. I do it so it feels real,” alludes to the visceral nature of her struggle and survival, mirroring the raw tenacity found in “Falling Facades.” Here, the act of shedding one’s external layers to reveal truth is akin to Lazarus’s rise, as captured in the lines, Sometimes, I just want to snatch that lighter. And burn these walls where the phoenix cries If its the only way to get to the goddam truth. Both poems navigate the rebirth of the speaker, celebrating the resilience required to confront one’s vulnerabilities and fears. Plath’s “Tulips” presents a serene yet unsettling tableau of a Hameed 7 woman in a hospital bed, confronting the vibrant intrusion of tulips into her desired state of nothingness. The lines, “The tulips are too excitable, it is winter here,” juxtapose the starkness of her reality against the vitality of the tulips, symbolizing an unwelcome intrusion into her space of introspection. This imagery mirrors the emotional landscape in “The Heart Resides in an Unmappable Country,” where the heart, much like Plath’s room, is a contested space, fraught with the desire for both connection and isolation. The poem captures this dichotomy with the lines, “you aim to unearth the foreign land of my heart... This heart fortifies, thickens against intrusions,” highlighting the heart’s guarded vulnerability and the inherent risks of letting others in. Ada Limón’s influence, with her adeptness at intertwining the personal with the universal, further shapes the collection’s narrative arc. Limón's poetry, characterized by its accessibility and emotional depth, serves as a guiding light for articulating the intricacies of the human condition in a manner that resonates with a broad audience. Her ability to find the profound in the mundane inspires the collection’s engagement with everyday moments and emotions, transforming them into a reflection on broader existential themes. The poem “Rainy Days,” for example, draws on Limón’s approach, using the simple act of cleaning to delve into complex feelings of grief and longing. “The Raincoat” by Ada Limón delves into the silent expressions of love and care that often go unnoticed but hold significance. When Limón writes, “When the doctor took her into the other room and told her she was dying... she made plans to live,” highlights the silent strength and unspoken acts of love that define our bonds. This reflection is mirrored in “Rainy Days,” where mundane acts like cleaning are imbued with deeper emotional currents, echoing the line, “Cleaning makes me feel like I can rearrange Hameed 8 whatever is broken within me.” Both poems articulate the subtle yet impactful ways in which love manifests, often in the quietest of moments, shaping our experiences. Ada Limón's “Bright Dead Things” contemplates the beauty and impermanence of life, urging an embrace of its fleeting moments. The poem’s celebration of life, with an acute awareness of its temporality, is shown, “I felt myself being more than I was, and less too... a bright dead thing.” This sentiment finds a parallel in my poem “Fleeting,” where the ephemeral nature of moments and emotions is captured in the imagery of "Wisteria ladders of longing, sawed off.” There is an urge for a deeper appreciation and presence within these fleeting moments. I draw inspiration from Tracy K. Smith’s “Life on Mars” where she explores themes of cosmic scale within the intimate frame of personal experiences, creating a bridge between the outer space and the inner self. Smith uses the cosmos not only as a backdrop but as a lens through which to examine the intricacies of human life, including the death of her father, an engineer who worked on the Hubble Space Telescope. This personal connection to the cosmos is where intimate narratives unfold against backdrops that suggest broader existential questions and themes. Some of my poems, like Smith’s, navigates through personal loss, love, and the longing for connection, all while engaging with the metaphorical ‘space’ that love and loss inhabit within us and around us. For example, Smith’s poem “The Universe as Primal Scream” traverses through the expanse of the universe to touch upon the primal human emotions of grief and despair. This poem’s journey through cosmic imagery to articulate deep-seated human feelings finds a parallel in my piece “Dark Caresses” where the personal and the universal converge in the exploration of desire and the catharsis of love. Furthermore, Smith’s “My God, It’s Full of Stars” contemplates the immensity of the universe alongside the personal, such as watching a Hameed 9 father through the lens of his work and the infinite possibilities that lie beyond our understanding. This contemplation of the unknown and the unknowable, juxtaposed with the deeply personal, is reflected in my poem “Summer Was Ours,” where the journey between Queens and Manhattan becomes a metaphorical space for navigating grief and memory. My poem “Fleeting,” characterized by its deliberate use of spacing to convey what is unsaid or lost in the transition of thought and emotion, bears a notable resemblance to the experimental form found in Etel Adnan’s “Arab Apocalypse.” Adnan’s uses visual space, and non-linear structure to encapsulate the destruction, and the ineffable nature of experience, particularly in the context of war and existential crisis: “We came with a sun instead of a face sun hung on a tree” (XXIII). In “Fleeting,” the spatial arrangement on the page—the gaps between words and lines—serves not merely as a stylistic choice but as a critical component of the poem’s meaning: “Soft lips 9: 05 Body soft against a cement mouth.” These spaces invite the reader to ponder the silences and the gaps in memory, where unspoken emotions linger between the lines, echoing the way Adnan uses space in “Arab Apocalypse” to represent the unsayable, the destruction that language cannot fully encompass. The fragmentation in “Fleeting,” where thoughts and images are dissected by the void, mirrors the fragmentation of self and world that Adnan portrays, a landscape marred by conflict and loss. Moreover, my short poems parallel the evocative brevity seen in “The Ink Dark Moon,” written by Japanese women poets of the Heian period, Ono no Komachi and Izumi Shikibu. Their short poems are succinct and impactful, Hameed 10 I thought to pick the flower of forgetting for myself but I found it already growing in his heart. Komachi and Shikibu’s poems distill the complex emotional landscapes into a few, carefully chosen words and images, capturing moments of longing and reflection. I do the same in “Undrowned Echos,” I cried for months, and yet, my tears haven’t been enough to drown your name. This brevity serves not only as a stylistic choice but as a means to imbue each word with a weight and resonance that extends beyond the confines of the poem. The collection draws inspiration from the poetic traditions that emphasize the symbiotic relationship between the human experience and the natural world. This connection, a recurring motif in the works of poets like Mary Oliver, informs the use of nature imagery throughout the collection, serving as a metaphor for the cycles of growth, decay, and renewal inherent in the journey through love and loss. In Oliver’s “Sleeping in the Forest,” the natural world is presented as a canvas reflecting the broad spectrum of human emotions and experiences. The poem begins with, I thought the earth remembered me, she took me back so tenderly, arranging her dark skirts, her pockets full of lichens and seeds. Hameed 11 Oliver emphasizes the innate connection between human beings and the natural world, and the acceptance found within it. This theme resonates in my poem “Summer Was Ours,” where the imagery of “Pink and white clouds, enchanting and disarming,” mirrors the chaotic yet beautiful journey of acceptance. Just as Oliver finds solace and understanding in the embrace of the natural world, “Summer Was Ours” reflects on the serenity and clarity that can be found in the acceptance of life’s capricious nature. Stylistically, I employ free verse across much of the collection because it allows for fluidity and adaptability in the expression of complex emotions, mirroring the unpredictable nature of the human experiences at the heart of these poems. The use of free verse grants the poems an organic structure that breathes with the natural flow of emotions. This formlessness becomes the form, reflecting the inherent chaos and unpredictability of feelings such as love and grief. I also go back to recurring themes, images, and motifs such as flowers, petals, the blue dress, luminosity, the heart’s chambers, gardens, New York City, and dialogues with one’s future self. These elements not only unify the individual poems but also invite readers into a reflective journey on the complexities of the evolving self. Flowers and petals emerge as potent symbols within the collection, embodying the dual nature of human vulnerability and resilience. Moreover, descriptors like “shiny and bright” recur as motifs that critique the allure of appearances and the deceptive nature of superficial attractions, underlining the dissonance between idealized perceptions and reality. In addition to free verse, the collection employs a variety of other poetic forms, such as prose poems and shorter, more concise poems, each serving a distinct purpose in the exploration of my thematic core. The prose poem format like in “Rainy Days”, with its block of text and Hameed 12 absence of line breaks, offers a different kind of containment for emotions and narratives, lending itself to a more immediate, unbroken presentation of imagery and thought: Cleaning makes me feel like I can rearrange whatever is broken within me. The birds sing, muffled by the patter of rain, and like an old woman I can barely hear it, the voice of a man who never loved me, who whispered “You are my little snowflake, my sweet, sweet snowflake,” now melting away in the rain of my reality. I could almost cry when I remember it, each tear a raindrop in an endless downpour. I don’t remember when I began to call everyone “honey,” as if they were all my little birds. I have always loved too much or never enough. I am exhausted from endless nights of crying, curled up on the couch, the floor, anywhere I can fall down and cry, half amazed at what the body is capable of, not believing I can cry anymore, like clouds surprised they still have rain to give. And there they are, his shirt, his books, my socks, all in a pile next to the bathroom door, and I fall down again. This form intensifies the sense of urgency, enveloping the reader in an immersive experience that mirrors the overwhelming nature of certain memories or feelings. For instance, the use of prose poems in the collection emphasize the inescapability of certain memories, presenting them as a continuous flow that mirrors the incessant nature of the speaker’s turmoil. Conversely, the tiny poems scattered throughout the collection act as brief, potent distillations of emotion or insight. Their brevity and concentrated imagery capture a moment, emotion, or realization with precision, offering a snapshot that invites the reader to pause and reflect like in “NYC—Neon Lights”: You are my grief. So shiny and bright, It’s almost worth living for. These shorter poems serve as moments of clarity or epiphany within the larger narrative of the collection, providing a counterbalance to the more expansive exploration of themes within the free verse and prose poems. Similarly, Ashley Farmer’s essays in Dear Damage are not confined to narrative prose; she experiments with different formats, including internet comments, Hameed 13 dialogues, and second person point-of-view. The shorter pieces in Dear damage act as flashes of introspection within the larger narrative that revolves around a tragic family incident and its aftermath: Dying from a broken heart is rare, but can happen: it’s called broken heart syndrome. Happiness is 50 percent genetic. A baby’s cells continue living insider her mother’s brain…36 percent of Americans say the form of immortality they’d choose is to be remembered by history (Farmer 107). Farmer’s shorter pieces serves as reflective pauses in the larger narrative where she grapples with her grandfather’s perception of mercy, personal relationships, the struggles of working as an adjunct professor, and her journey in writing and teaching. These condensed, powerful moments offer insight that illuminates the surrounding prose. Memories and grief are often tied to particular places, in this case I use New York as a landscape in which things are simultaneously present and absent. The speaker does not want to forget her first love because she does not want to lose access to those moments in time when she was so deeply in love with him. Consequently, the poems are a blend of memory and fantasy. The recurring images and symbols such as the blue dress, gardens, and New York City weave a thematic thread through the collection and serve as part of a fragmented and cyclical reality of grief. As the speaker revisits places from their past, it reveals that memory is an imaginative process. Her memories of a moment are not fixed, but rather shaped by her present fears and desires as a way to reconcile her past with her present. Trauma is far from linear and inherently chaotic, and the speaker writes poems as a way to work through the trauma relying on both her Hameed 14 memories and imagination to grapple with the past. Her memories—the very things that haunt her⎯also redeem her transgressions because she is able to participate in her own narrative. Memory weaves through the collection as a pervasive force, potent with the duality of pain and healing. The poems explore how memory serves as a repository of past experiences, cradling moments of joy and trauma alike. This dual nature of memory—its capacity to both wound and mend—is a central theme, conveying the complex role of remembering and reflecting on the past. The act of remembering is depicted as a double-edged sword, where the same memories that bring solace and nostalgia also have the power to reopen old wounds. In “Shadows,” the act of remembering unfolds as a journey through the heart of Manhattan, where each step is laden with the gravity of remembrance. The poem articulates the ambivalence of memory, serving as both a sanctuary for cherished moments and a crucible for enduring pain. As the speaker navigates the city’s sprawling expanse, the tangible landscapes become intertwined with the intangible contours of loss and longing, casting long shadows on the sidewalks that bear silent witness to the speaker’s internal turmoil. The poem delves into the struggle of grappling with memories that persist with unwelcome tenacity, unwanted recollections that intrude upon the present, refusing to be forgotten: Can grief be separated from memory? Can I park grief on the side of 52nd street? In your grey Mustang, flooded from the rainstorm. Can I leave my memory of you? On the sidewalk. Where our lips touched. Can I go back and kill? The construction of a home Hameed 15 fated to burn, hoping the dream doesn’t follow me. This poem portrays the act of remembering as an involuntary summoning of the past, where memories, both bitter and sweet, demand to be acknowledged, posing a challenge to the heart’s fight for peace.Yet, amidst the turmoil, memory also emerges as a pathway to healing. In the reflective dialogue with the self, as seen in “Sketches,” memory acts as a mirror, offering insights that eventually lead to acceptance, “I can finally admit that I loved you.” The act of looking back becomes an act of reconciliation, where the understanding gleaned from past experiences serves as the foundation for a more compassionate and comprehensive understanding of the present. Beyond the personal catharsis of the speaker in articulating these themes, the collection offers a space for reflection. The verses become a conduit through which readers may navigate their own emotional wounds, finding solace in the shared human experiences of love, loss and the search for meaning amidst life’s inevitable cycles of joy and despair. Hameed 16 Works Cited Adnan, Etel. Arab Apocalypse. Post-Apollo Press, 1989 Adnan, Etel. “XXIII.” Arab Apocalypse. Post-Apollo Press, 1989, pp.42. Farmer, Ashley. “Body Composition.” Dear Damage, Sarabande Books, 2022, pp. 107. Lewis, C.S. A Grief Observed. New York: Seabury Press, 1963. Limón, Ada. “The Raincoat.” Poetry Foundation, Poetry Foundation, https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/160713/the-raincoat. Limón, Ada. Bright Dead Things. Milkweed Editions, 2015. Oliver, Mary. “Sleeping in the Forest.” Nynke Passi, 13 Sept. 2012, nynkepassi.wordpress.com/ 2012/09/13/nature-poetry-4-poems-by-mary-oliver/. Plath, Sylvia. “Lady Lazarus.” Poetry Foundation, Poetry Foundation, https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/49000/lady-lazarus. Plath, Sylvia. “Tulips.” Poetry Foundation, Poetry Foundation, https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/49013/tulips-56d22ab68fdd0. Smith, Tracy K. Life on Mars. Graywolf Press, 2011. Smith, Tracy K. “The Universe as Primal Scream.” Life on Mars, Graywolf Press, 2011, pp. 57-58. Smith, Tracy K. “My God, It’s Full of Stars.” Life on Mars, Graywolf Press, 2011, pp. 8-12. Hameed 17 Ordinary Weapons “I tell you this to break your heart, by which I mean only that it break open and never close again to the rest of the world.”—Mary Oliver Hameed 18 Unexpected They didn’t tell me it would hurt like this. Love does not leave the room gracefully. Love betrays you. Love lingers in a land that is not yours. The narrator of your mind will be on his side, refusing to make him the villain. You can’t be both the hero and the martyr, breaking the fall of burning ash. Hameed 19 Hazy I am still young enough to believe in empty fantasies. In this version of the fairytale, the snake lost its poison. Left it at the door as he raveled me around him. Show me how danger forges a home between my hip bones. Hameed 20 The Heart Resides in an Unmappable Country You look at me through your microscope, finding broken parts: busted blood vessels, disorganized, irregular. You think you can fix this— insist on flying and trespassing even as I warn you. Ignoring the signs, you aim to unearth the foreign land of my heart, waiting outside its gates, expecting entrance to my most guarded chambers. Didn’t they tell you? This heart fortifies, thickens against intrusions. You should have listened. Instead of residing like a lost boy in an unmappable country. You try to convince me you’re safe, as you go digging beneath the burning feathers of my heart. You tell me about your chivalry and kindness, how you care for your mother and sister— But didn’t they tell you? These skills won’t save you here. The heart is a muscle, and all muscles have memory, storing each tear, each scar in its fibrous grief— a dense defense, lining every wall, repelling intruders: good or bad Until it can’t tell the difference anymore. And I almost envy your courage, Hameed 21 deprived of a certain cynicism, as you try and climb the heart-closed gates. You tell me you won’t hurt me— But baby, when will you realize I’m the one who doesn’t want to hurt you? Hameed 22 NYC—Neon Lights You are my grief. So shiny and bright, it’s almost worth living for. Hameed 23 Foolish Love Before visiting New York, I never knew the craving— to want something so badly you lie to yourself. I risked everything for that week, let myself believe he was the only one for me, never thinking it would cost me anything. I left my feelings for him scattered— on our long walks through the city, at CafeWha, his hand on my knee, fingers strumming to the rhythm of the music, while moving something in me. The blue dress, under the tree near 36th street, where he first tried to kiss me, over the puddle, in the garden where he chased down my lips. He wants it to stop, but I never want it to end. Mostly, I’ve learned I like falling, so much that I’ll foolishly pay the sins of another woman, all too willing to be struck by something so shiny and bright. Hameed 24 Dark Caresses All through the darkness I want you to destroy me, the way Hemingway says we’re meant to be destroyed night after night in the sacred half-light, where we can bury old wounds with faith and betray trust, where betrayal and trust intersect as you whisper in my ear Get carried away, BabyDoll. Life is too short, to be this hardcore. But I will wrestle with you until I no longer can up until the very moment breaks us and disaster floods through a broken moon, fallen petals opening regions of my heart until my muffled desires drown. And when it’s finally over, there will be no musical notes no song blossoming just the sound of my heart withering—silenced petals falling. Hameed 25 Plucked Promises I don’t care about the promises you made. But I meant it in the way flowers pretend not to care about the harshness of winter. They stand there frozen. Their petals silenced. They wait for winter to pass, but ice tears them apart—petal by petal. They surrender to winter’s sorrow. I don’t care about the promises you made. But when I see you, I think we can start over. Hope will resurrect the fallen petals. I don’t care about the promises you made. But I wilted as soon as you left. I don’t care about the promises you made. But then why can’t I forget them? Hameed 26 Summer Was Ours Pink and white clouds, enchanting and disarming, so many happy things. There is so much to remember. Where do I start? You coaxed my softest parts, happiness escaped my heart’s chambers gave up to grace. For a brief moment, you let me slip into the shadow of your smile let me slip into your life’s desires in your garden, tending to Peace Lillies, beds of lavender and chamomile, nurturing delicate tendrils of ivy, what we’ve harvested— soft blooms of jasmine now, held over your stove. Let me believe you were brave. I’ve dreamt of falling for so long. Now, I remember the story. I am afraid to be loved, the way I’m meant to be loved. Stollen lullabies echo on the train between Queens and Manhattan. I cry over open wounds. Why won’t my grief surrender? I’ve made room for emptiness in my green suitcase: a dying sea broken bikes torn clothes you can’t sleep in. Hameed 27 Olga cuts my hair Do you really love that man? Afraid of drowning, Afraid of even trying, He is a fool, When will you walk away? I never know when to quit, keep pushing the boulder Over and over A Sisyphus in motion Like a circling carousel Of smiling horses. Hameed 28 In My Mother’s Blue Dress I tell my daughter hope wears itself like a blue dress: stubborn, formed and fitted, how men have learned to unravel, to splatter shades of blue. I tell my daughter of a time when faithless hope clung to my frame, my body a ledger for three hundred promises, each a stitch in a fabric built by a love once shiny and new. Now, it reflects only the dim light of a worn-out star. Hameed 29 Through a Mother’s Eyes My daughter is distressed that she’s still in love with the boy who took her first kiss— the one who wasn’t good enough for her. When she ran into him again, he had that same ease, and that same cute laugh where he tilts his head back and his eyes flutter shut with an innocent surprise like a Balkan peony bathing in the clouds. But when he left, it hit her all over. He was headed to his new girlfriend’s house, he’d take the subway to Brooklyn after getting off work in Manhattan. She’d be making tea, he’d unlace his sneakers and take her in his arms, offering her his mouth with an excitement he used to share with her. My daughter will wonder if he still remembers the softness of her lips and the sweet taste of her kisses, and the way their lips felt against one another resurrecting every cell inside them. Or if he forgot her as soon as he left her. Hameed 30 She didn’t tell me all this, she didn’t have to, because who hasn’t longed for that boy? that girl? She’s mad at herself that she can’t get over him. She’s young and she’s got goals, quietly ambitious, giving up weekends to throw herself into work. Now she practices her writing, tackling one phrase at a time. She wants to learn perfection. Sweet girl. Should we tell her the truth? That she’ll never get over him. Love is an ancient tree in the heart of a storm-swept forest. Life strips its leaves and cracks its branches. No matter how much it hurts, it will always be there— its roots delve deep. I still love the boy who sang in empty hotel cafes on New York Avenue, He let his voice cascade through the hush of those sultry August afternoons, a stream of clear water cutting through the heavy air, carrying with it all the dreams that hung unsaid. He carried the subtle scent of old books and fresh ink, reflecting worn pages, as timeless as the songs he sang. Hameed 31 I still long for him, like a sailor craves the sea after years on dry land, as a wanderer pines for a home she’s only seen in her dreams. With every season that fades, a part of me lingers in the life I never lived. His children carry smiles I didn’t help shape; even the laughter that fills their home echoes in a place where my voice has never been. Even their new stepmother is not me. When she voices her struggles, her efforts unacknowledged, I can’t help but believe he’d have been better off with me. As time marches on, grandchildren will brighten his days, their laughter echoing the hallways that will never know my footsteps. When his final chapter nears its end, even if I’m there, I’ll be no more than a muted bouquet. None of it ever truly fades. The heart is relentless. And enduring. And limitless. That’s how I can turn to my love, now, with the awe early imams must have felt opening the Qur’an. And when he pulls me to him, still, after all these years, I feel like I did the first time I saw the Sistine Chapel. Hameed 32 I had never witnessed the vibrant hues and dynamic flow of divine forms that I had only known as faded reproductions in books. I feel, now, as if I’m lying beneath the celestial canopy, the vibrant touch of God’s outstretched finger to Adam, a moment of creation eternal and sublime, forever captured in paint and plaster against the expanse of an immortal sky. Hameed 33 Love-Sick Stories Once upon a time, the boy told his girl: I will never intentionally hurt you. The girl didn’t think to ask how can you promise me something so grandiose? She looked into his face and said: I know you won’t. ~ ~ ~ Years later, alone in her room, the girl listens to the life she’s been saved from: Summer laughter. Evening walks. Morning cries fleeing from the happiness of danger. Hameed 34 Rainy Days I couldn’t name it, the bitter sadness swelling up in me for weeks. So I cleaned, found myself standing over the sink scrubbing dishes over and over. Cleaning makes me feel like I can rearrange whatever is broken within me. The birds sing, muffled by the patter of rain, and like an old woman I can barely hear it, the voice of a man who never loved me, who whispered “You are my little snowflake, my sweet, sweet snowflake,” now melting away in the rain of my reality. I could almost cry when I remember it, each tear a raindrop in an endless downpour. I don’t remember when I began to call everyone “honey,” as if they were all my little birds. I have always loved too much or never enough. I am exhausted from endless nights of crying, curled up on the couch, the floor, anywhere I can fall down and cry, half amazed at what the body is capable of, not believing I can cry anymore, like clouds surprised they still have rain to give. And there they are, his shirt, his books, my socks, all in a pile next to the bathroom door, and I fall down again. Someday, years from now, things will be different, the house clean for once, everything in its place, windows shining, sun coming in easily now. You will be peeling a tangerine—and watching how a bird stops for a moment in the clear sky, and gathers the will to fly again. You’ll be reading Mary Oliver, and you’ll ponder over her words like a child discovering a rainbow after the rain. Gone you’ll say over and over again until it begins to make sense, and that’s when you’ll say for the first time, out loud: He’s gone. He’s never coming back. And it will be the first time you believe it. Hameed 35 Undrowned Echoes I cried for months, and yet, my tears haven’t been enough to drown your name. Hameed 36 Redemptive Ink I don’t want to remember the past. And I definitely don’t want to feel anything. That’s what I told the therapist. She proceeded to tell me that what I was feeling was normal. What you’re feeling is normal sounds like a routine line a therapist is supposed to say. I don’t believe her, but I don’t say anything. I pretend my sunglasses can hide my whole body. I let people see me from a distance because if they looked closely they would know. People will look at you, and they will know things about you. People will look at your body, and they will see a part of your heart. And there’s nothing you can do to change that story. Except to write a poem you don’t want to remember. So I write, each word a step out of the shadows over the waters where truths find their wings— painted with promise. Hameed 37 Notes from History Class The professor asked the students, “Why is it necessary to study history?” After the breakup, epiphanies never came. Only the sobering understanding that as much as we are taught that remembrance is good and forgetting is bad—on some level we must ignore. Each day we ignore—ignore trauma, tragedy, death, heartache, loss of all kinds, and get on with life. In the end, ignoring simply leads to another form of forgetting. I don’t remember what the other students said—just the vague recollection that the main point was that remembering is good and forgetting is bad. Hameed 38 Why Won’t This Die? After dance class, my teacher tells me her first love died. She loved him more than her husband. She says it with such graceful poise that, for a while, I didn’t believe her. Not that she loved him more than her husband, but that he died. I felt guilty for thinking how nice that would be. I’m tired of fighting with you in my mind: I wish you were dead. You thought I’d leave so easy? I wish you would. Are you okay? I’m already halfway to nowhere in this twisted dance. I wish I was dead. No longer dangling like a limp fish on a hook caught between the plunge and the crash. You tried? Everything and then more—waited and hoped. You’d let me die? I’m the one who would pull the trigger. Hameed 39 Dormant Dreams Each Memory an ordinary weapon against my shrinking sanity It leaves me wondering what would have happened— Dew-kissed grass beneath our feet, chasing butterfly milkweeds in the breeze. Hameed 40 Shadows I tread through Manhattan, a sorrow so dense It seems a mist, a tangible shroud that wraps skyscrapers in shadows, dimming the neon lights. Each step is a weight, pressing against the pavement, as if my footfalls could leave impressions deep enough to reach the subway’s veins below. I’m surprised the streets don’t buckle, the sidewalks don’t fracture under the heaviness of my grief. I look for that elusive enclave, camouflaged in the clamor, veiled by the ordinary, where my memories can’t echo against the brickwork, where my grief can’t reach. Marked by a silence that’s louder than indifference. Here, amid the unrelenting heartbeat of the city, I imagine a place where the world is softened, edges blurred, where I can return the weight of you. Can grief be separated from memory? Can I park grief on the side of 52nd street? In your grey Mustang, flooded from the rainstorm. Can I leave my memory of you? On the sidewalk. Where our lips touched. Can I go back and kill? The construction of a home fated to burn, hoping the dream doesn’t follow me through our kitchen where we make omelets, before we burn it down. You held the match above me, The entire time. Hameed 41 Can I please forget you? Dressed in a crisp white button-down, Making promises so luminous, but so empty. Can I please erase you? Before I took the hammer And nailed my heart to yours. Hameed 42 Sketches I can finally admit that I loved you, After all my efforts to shade you back in. The lines never held. Silly me. I thought you could believe in someone. Hameed 43 Falling Facades I’m so sick of stepping into this house and waiting for you to burn it on fire. Sometimes, I just want to snatch that lighter, and burn these walls where the phoenix cries— if its the only way to get to the goddam truth. Hameed 44 Fleeting Language collapsed into crumpled letters disappeared into complete silence when you said said you no longer wanted me. Wisteria ladders of longing sawed off the photo of us on the balcony Lower East Side Somewhere Nowhere never lasted Ephemeral sunshine Greenwich Village. Memory is as close to nothing as it is to something. Wildflowers in my dream. Soft lips 9: 05 body soft against a cement mouth. Fake memories give grief some space. Falling in love with ineffable grief leaving no new worlds lefts to dream. Incandescent shadows of roses set ablaze. Innocent enough to believe in fantasies wise enough to know there comes a point where we remember the photo forget the moment turns into smoke.