|i dream we are fucking in my parents bed, on my mothers side.
my mother who hated us, who hated you.
i dream you go for my neck, then i go for yours, tatooing your body with dark marks.
in my dream, i feel the wetness of the inside of your mouth, the sexiness
of the oppressive under-the-cover heat when you pull me under to kiss you.
in my dream there is fear that she will walk in on us at any moment or i wont get my tax forms filled on time, so we stop.
i dress you in one of my white tshirts and socks and you tiptoe past her.
shes in her 2nd bedroom, sitting up in bed, covered to her waist, reading through her bifocals.
i watch, not knowing if shes spotted you or not.
i tiptoe after you, not caring if she sees me or not.
as long as you are safe.
we rush down the hallway and you out the door and down the stairs.
i still have to tie my shoes so i stay behind.
in this dream we are living at my uncles house like when we first moved to amman.
my uncles house, a square in the grid made by abdullah ghosheh street,
mecca street, al-medina street and the one running between sixth and
seventh circle, whose name i never knew.
my uncles house, the boys downstairs whose dad deserted them and whose mother brought them up alone.
the armenian neighbours whose house was all covered by a vine.
my uncles house; sherif, al-baqal, who's sweets were more expensive, even if just by a paistre.
sherif, who was miserly and mean to the kids, then nice to the parents.
my cousins who had rotten teeth from all the candy.
so i watch you run down the stairs in your socks, hoping you wont slip
from the socks like i did once, in europe, on vacation.
my mother trying to find to find an emergency room far away from any city, on a sunday night.
my sister trying to cheer me up by making fun of the doctor in arabic.
the doctor turning out to have lived and worked in egypt.
the doctor, turning out to understand.
in the living room at the end of the hall i can hear my father has guests.
i can hear his big laugh.
you ve gone now, im trying to follow you.
since you have my shirt, im only dressed waist down like my mother and im
desperately trying to tie my shoes.
my breast are pressed against my knees as i fiddle with the laces.
my feet are barefoot inside the shoes since you are wearing my socks.
in the living room i can see who the guests are now.
i handsome young suitor and his mother who've come for me, my siblings near my dad.
his mother flirts with my dad and he flirts back, beaming.
the man looks dashing with a moustache, he is the image of my father when he was young.
he is the image of my father, when my mother wed him.
i think to myself, fa7il.
if i were a straight girl would i be flattered?
or would i be tying my shoes, sneaking out of the house with my banned muslim boyfriend?
i think of the men who cat call the women on the streets of amman, of beirut, of cairo.
if i were a straight girl, would i like this?
and if they were women would i mind?