Pieta

My life lays dripping in my lap
Like a deflated blow-up doll
I gently stroke its sticky wiry hair
But with every stroke
It sheds a lock
Its stench fills my lungs
With a sulfuric tinge
Of empty roads
And myriad intersections
It stinks of punctured dreams
And a quagmire of choices
And a sweet nausea
Of apathy
At each bend
I can care less
I return to my starting point
And with each turn
I ever seek
Oh so futilely
My starting point

Pieces of Me

Your absence is scattered around the house

Like pieces of me
And I miss you
Every time
In spite of myself
Maybe I’m just bored
With my own company
Maybe I just like yours
In any case
Won’t you remember
Next time
To pack your absence along with you?

My mother told me
My hands grew larger
As she bid me farewell
My mother told me
She strung herself
A laundry line for my dreams.
How could I let them blow away?

© Copyright 2003 Obeida Sidani