the colour of a country

& in the national gallery of art i find

hers staring at me from within the body
of a new woman      a spectacle of light

caught mid conversation
in the limelight nearby i tell her

we are not entitled to know the body yet

it will escape us like it always does

one foot in front of the other
.أ
to figure a border i’ve been told

you must first start with the body
in the fresco of a bathing woman

you can see the effect of its creator’s

breath left on the plaster at the edge

of the painting where the edge

is purposeful
unlike baladi in the 20th century

‘created almost by accident’
we know how a single sneeze from the right

white nose can cut open a new country
water spills out of the woman’s face

like a harvest                    
each pigment wept

into position then i move on
.أأ
                                                                                                         they say we owe it to god’s

                                                                                             country to mark our distance from

                                                                                             its beginning its unprimed canvas its one

                                                                                                                                       rosary eye
                                                                 so while in the westness i try

                                                                            to find her a country of our own

                                                                                                making                                but each museum is a mirror in

                                                                                                                                       mourning each sky a stolen artifact
                                                                                                homeland-less again

                                                                                                                                i return to our cities

                                                                                                                                                                   and on those same
balconies nearby women

ululate          their welcome        

through the air                  like a bird

glistening against                

the limestone        
.أأأ
on my way back from the future          i discover for fairouz an almost-country

a mountain of turquoise                                

cloud hiding in the desert                                
what she wished for        

that one wellspring        

of a song called ‘wattani’
she asks me to bring it home        

mid-air it dissolves                

its architecture                        
.أأأأ
akh! ya albi        it’s almost as if        

 this new mesopotamia doesn’t want to be found
hiding      somewhere

in a madaba-like mosaic

bare in the basement of

an unknown church
still        fairouz chases the silhouette

of its dream on the behalf

of storms everywhere

.أأأأأ

DEAR MR. GALLERY MAN,

            I am lost and have been lost for centuries.

            The instructions are missing and I am tired.

            I would like to stop looking by myself for a while.
                                                                                                         .أأأأأأ
                                                                                                                        fairouz is searching for a

                                                                                                                        country the colour

                                                                                                                        of a pair of eyes

                                                                                                                        with a harvest like

                                                                                                                        the dawning of a face

                                                                                                                        so i draw on her eye

                                                                                                                        brows with a felt pen

                                                                                                                        i stretch her skin with

                                                                                                                        total intent i hope to put

                                                                                                                        all sneezes wa their endless

                                                                                                                        consequences behind me

                                                                                                                        since it is written that

                                                                                                                        to body the edge of

                                                                                                                        a border first you must

                                                                                                                        open its figure first

                                                                                                                        you start with its eyes
.أأأأأ
في معهد فن الفسيفساء والترميم

i ask my instructor how easy it is to forget origin

how difficult it is to restore a whole of fragments

to re-build a body post-partition                

she says                  whatever you do

mosaics are pixelated                

you can’t ask a tessera to be other

than what it is          يا زين        

it would do you well to remember

not every mosaic can be protected

from time wa its burglars
.أأأأ
in my dream i’m on aunti zein’s

porch painting a blue peninsula into

the sky named fairouz in the near distance

the dead sea makes her first appearance four

hundred wa twenty three new metres above

place sixty point eight kilometres too close

for comfort each pillar the old sea brings

with it sits tight in the garden right below

our family’s oldest possession a country

of light drawn fresh wa free-hand
.أأأ
                                                                                                but these women

                                                                                                                              welcoming us

                                                                                                                                                               to a home mismade

                                                                                                how they body

                                                                                                                              the air in the dents

                                                                                                                                                               of their frame

                                                                                                how among

                                                                                                                              our elders an argeeleh

                                                                                                                                                               pipe travels

                                                                                                how the cards

                                                                                                                              are lost slowly

                                                                                                                                                               sheikh by sheikh

.أأ

multiple modes of sensation cannot exist without suffering. the old masters. how well they

understood. of acclimation too the flesh can make itself a master. if the sky changes tone the brush tips

must charge onwards. our hands must negotiate the unanticipated one gradual mixture at a time. to

create you must accept the human position. accept the gradience you cannot change with a flexible

wrist. hold your palette close to the heart of your eyes. do not forget the canvas begins as a desert.

neither of which are blank. the brush an extension of lightning ready to make its mark. approach

both gently. trust in their ability to strike in the sand a sign you did not know you need.

.أ
when you asked me what mahmoud meant when he said

“لربما القمر ليس جميلاً

إلا لأنه بعيد”

wa i told you ‘maybe the moon is not beautiful                

except        that it is far away’        

you said translation fit my mouth perfectly

since then i’ve asked the moon to come closer every

night wa every night the moon pretends not to hear me

she turns her face away from me until all i can see is the pure

curvature of her neck        stretched like a minaret light        

in the horizon        the rest of her body

a faint border in the dark يا قمر

عيوني إليك ترحل كل يوم         

        وإنني أصلي