Time Surges On

I built a house completely out of ice

I shoveled, piled until the walls were high 

I crawled and stacked with hands as red as rouge

I fell and stumbled, labored through the cold

The milky snowflakes fell upon my cheeks

They flurried, floated, danced upon my tongue

Dissolving quickly into drops of rain 

I drowned my worries into each wet flake 

Inside my igloo lay a quilt of blue  

And flames of orange that burned the dark and cold 

I sat beneath my roof from night to dawn 

And prayed the cold would freeze all tides, and time 

Though soon the winter faded into spring 

And melted down my work, my pride, my home 

Downfall

Misfortune lived on her doorstep 

acted as a force against all things 

favorable in her eyes

Superstition scrubbed the sanity from her mind

washed away all lucidity 

replaced it with apprehension 

Death always lay right around the corner 

loomed over the people she loved

stole each ray of light 

she thought was finally hers 

but over her head soared that familiar black crow 

with it’s deep, dark eyes and vacant soul 

Prayers buried themselves into the ground 

built a fortress to fight her pleads

what good was begging to a god 

who gave no sign her entreaties were received?

The sound of her late husband’s cries played a dissonant tune 

he was stabbed seven times in the shower  

disrupting their far from perfect honeymoon

on the day of their wedding she told him

it was bad luck to look his bride in the eyes

he laughed with such great power, and brought his soft green irises to hers 

The sharp memory her father once had, vanished into the crisp air

she shook him fiercely, screamed, “I am your daughter”

but she was only seen as an intruder.

during the innocent games of her childhood

he always rolled three sixes 

a sign of the end times, a sign of all that was to come

The limbs of her ten year old child, lay lifeless on her kitchen floor

brown blood slept silently in a puddle, untouched

as if it were a guest in her home 

at the age of four, he cracked his father’s looking glass

trying to swat a fly on the wall

the premonition of imminent disaster overshadowed his every move   

The vision in her eyes wandered away 

perhaps to see what the happier side of life looked like

she was now blind, with not but one soul to remember yesterday 

She never rolled any sixes
never broke any loooking glass
maybe her tragedies were not curses
merely hardships and misfortunes 

If this life of hers was planned to plummet

if the ill omens were not but her fate 

who can find comfort from an idea so chilling?

that some lives are destined to detonate.

Caffeinated Love

Lip stick stains 

on the rim of my coffee cup

A vibrant red 

drawing my eyes to the tracks of my addiction 

The scent of freshly brewed java 

travels through my nose 

carrying with it 

traces of regret 

My weakness 

rich, dark 

irresistible flavor 

Don’t drink it

intuition cries out 

in a high pitched screech 

Though my body takes over 

and my lips grow closer 

nearly touching the silk like liquid 

I know so well 

Resist.

Flashing images of
frosted eyes and
insomniac nights 

chase away the desire for another taste 

Caffeine does not need me as I need it 

Although the ghosts 

of my past mistakes 

are not strong enough 

I think of those luscious curves
the way that earthy aroma tempts me
in every way

The insides of my stomach turn 

as if they have grown hands of their own 

and are waiting 

to reach out and consume
the sweet, sweet taste
of bliss

As sweat makes a home for itself on my forehead 

as my eyes tire from the futile attempt 

to overcome this battle 

my strength escapes me 

My lips grow closer once more 

and the warm contents 
of the only cure 
I have ever known

voyage through my pipes 

with graceful fluidity 

as they say hello 

to the brown covered paths they saw 

only one hour ago 

The craving vanishes, 

dissolves into a soft
momentary sensation
of breathtaking pleasure

Intuition is defeated once more      

and I sink back into the arms
of the only one who has ever known
just how my body gives in 

Fool's Paradise

Around 1996 My parents decided that 

they wanted another child. 

I imagine my mother on the verge of tears,

explaining to my father how

all she ever wanted was a daughter.

My father responding with a simple, 

“Me too honey” 

Around 1967 My father escaped from Egypt. 

The Six Day War broke apart families,

stole children’s freedom, and stripped 

the light from my father’s eyes. All he 

wanted after the war was to build a family with 

so much love. The type of love that would allow him to forget about the pains of his past. 

Around 1966 My mother was selling 

lemonade on the small streets of Buffalo.  

She acquired a liking for music, medicine 

and literature. The only hardships she 

was ever faced with was her family’s struggle 

for money, which soon prevented her from 

attending the Ivy’s she had been accepted to.

Around 1993 My father laid eyes on my mother 

in a Synagogue in Philadelphia. Neither knew how to 

communicate through the language barrier, but apparently 

 “It wasn't about the language.” Later that year, they

were married. First, a big brown eyed boy joined the family. 

A year and a half later, another boy, with slightly smaller eyes, 

but almost identical to the first. My father’s wish was only partly

coming true. He had a family, but he could not stop the nightmares,

which played for him each memory in intricate detail. 

Around the end of 1997 I was born. The 

precious, pink princess that both my parents 

longed for. I was finally tangible, and not a figment 

of their imagination. I was small, 

delicate, and beautiful. 

I was theirs. 

Around 2001 I played in my first soccer game. 

From the moment I touched the sole of 

my foot to the ball, I knew that I would 

be playing that sport until the end of my existence. 

With worried eyes, and heavy hearts, my 

parents drove me to my games. Where was their

delicate, little princess? I was slipping away. 

Around 2012 I felt the wrath of my parent’s criticism. 

I needed to involve myself in activities that would make 

me more “presentable,” more “relatable.” According 

to my father, I was unladylike. He said, “In Egypt, women 

didn't play sports.” And for my mother, she wanted me

to fit all of the expectations she had set for me before I 

was born. Together, it felt like hate, rather than concern. 

Around 2015 I had my heart broken for the first time.
No food would settle in my stomach 

no comedy would make me laugh. My brothers carried

me through my heartache. They were my crutches, my 

hope. And soccer was my reason to stay sane. When I
played, nothing outside that field mattered. But my 

parents watched as I desiccated. They told me 

it was my fault. They warned me after all. I 

should have been better at preserving the

people I loved in my life. I should stop 

trying to be someone that I am not. 

Around 2016 I was convinced it was my problem. 

It was a new year, and I still felt so lonely. My heart 

was worn out. I felt numb. Maybe there 

was something wrong with me. Were my parents right?

Was I not being true to myself? If only I recognized that 

the faults lied with them, not me. 

Around 2017 I learned that my parents were having issues 

in their marriage. It will get better, I can fix them, I repeated 

to myself. But I was the root of their problem. I was the one

causing them sorrow. I was not delicate. I was not “perfect 

and pink.” I was just me. 

Around 2018 I grew the strength to tell my parents 

all of the ways in which they had hurt me.

I said, “I cannot mend all of your scars Daddy. 

I cannot live up to expectations set not for 

me, but for your idea of me, momma.” I do 

wish the conversation ended like those

shown on tv, where I am at last comforted, and 

accepted for who I am. Although, that night, I made a

vow to myself to be that delicate, pink princess, despite 

my craving for a more memorable life.