Nathalie Khankan

A Public Transportation

The mind is in your shoulder 

in your hands.

On the bus I remember

I remember I had forgotten my book.

My book hand on the body of the bus 

The bodies of busses in our city

My city hand body and 

our bus books.

What’s the afterlife of a shoreline or a nervous system?

The afterlife of a bus ride? 

As sure as the bottle in the sea

suggests a hand.

Does it matter if I can’t recall how square the seat?

Does it matter if I can’t replicate 

the mouth

of a bus?

A Syrian Sleep

this husband is a beautiful sleeper 

he falls asleep as i turn on the faucet 

he sleeps like a baby in his eyes

sometimes i place my hand in front of his mouth 

to hear him

once i didn’t sleep

more than two or three hours 

at a time for eight years

it’s true that i tried to

& it’s true that i cried too

& prayed for a shipment of new spinal entheses

did you know that you can sleep on your side 

like the edge of a sword?

somewhere i read about the underground 

language of syrian detainees

do you realize how many syrian detainees

i read about tasyif

which comes from sayf

which means sword in arabic

tasyif

to pretend to be a sword

to sleep on the thinnest side of your side

(to sleep on the thinnest side of your side, nathalie)

it’s true

that not sleeping will drive 

you over the ledge

especially of rocks beneath the sea near the shore

i did go on to lose the arch of my back 

i looked & long for it

in all the places

i cannot retrieve it 

my sweet an arch

where drops of sweat could hum 

where b maybe would nest his lips

before this fusing spine

inside it such amphibious matter 

liquid & porridge

i thought then maybe i’ll be safe now 

from here on out

i already received my chronic 

condition 

we think we may be safe now

toward the end of a year of our global condition 

certain caliber calamities

don’t strike with that kind of proximity

but we are not 

safe calamities 

do as we know

come in stereo & string

& they come 

as we wait

                                unarched

                                on the thinnest side of the side

our crowded room

going numb in every limb

Your Fingers are Hard Working and Your Face 

We are all rooming 

and refusing the room.

We are wilting 

believing in shelter.

What makes us ill:

many small heads of travesty 

cropped too close.

The young are mourning and the old. 

The undone is undone.

Overt and ornate are the snow goggles 

and sunglasses on all their faces.

What makes us ill: 

It is the trees outside 

their human cells

                                                  warping in the presence of 

                                                  all these man made boxes. 

                                                  Say their names.

You have seen submerged land 

its weekly violence & volcanic 

the bruised shins and arches

you have seen the granary satellized.

Come out, the trees call

touch our sunshine, our spiral compendia. 

enter this silver fogged

this metallic season

our ribbon of mortal surface.