Sunday, May 13
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They asked: How would you like your death?
Blue, like stars pouring from a window.

I took the blue pill, and then
another. It was easy
but still my ghost, here, tethered.
I have been living such a long time
for someone my age.
I have been living in pain, etc. etc.
Yes I have tried
the hard labor of joy. Yes
most days I do not want
to die and too take pleasure
in sparrows, splashed sun.
Sadness has a long tongue and wide mouth and hounds
me wherever I go.
There are women
who hold the door open, beckon.
They are blue and it is blue where I am not.
The thing about stars is they are dead,
or some are and there is no discernable difference.
Do you understand? Something calls my name
like my mother used to.
I am tired
and something is calling, calling.
 - Leila Chatti
Explaining the Attempt to the Doctors,
Beginning with Two Lines from Darwish
heteroglossia









  • ". . . as I have said often enough, I write for myself in multiplicate,
    a not unfamiliar phenomenon on the horizon of shimmering deserts."
    - Vladimir Nabokov