Aleah Sulaiman Bantas
Moamina was the first girl I saw
aaaaaaaasoftly arched brows,
a look you catch
in those brief intervals of movement
aaaaaaaawhen you look too long at someone,
and just stare,
aaaaaaacompelled,
thoughtless, as if
aaaaaaaabeing carried away
aaaaaaaaaaaby the current of an alep river,
the kind where it hasn’t been raining for days on end,
aaaaand the water runs cool at your feet,
watching pebbles settle in the shallows—
aaaaaaaaaweathered, polished smooth.
How you call a river twice:
aaaaaaaafirst in your tongue alep,
then again river,
aaaaato remind yourself
it must flow
aaaaa somewhere.
Her frown and smile
aaaaamerge, soft creases forming
aaaaaaaaat the corners of her lips,
aaaaaaaaaaforehead,
aaaaaassssssdd& cheeks.
What I wanted to say
was her eyes were the certain virtue of stillness—
the ease I could have held onto,
like holding a tasbeeh
to which I recite,
mouthing forgiveness.
I remember her voice trailing off,
half-breath,
the sound of sleep and distance
aaaaaprayers dissolving,
aaaaaaaaaaaa steady cadence.
blending into the ripple of water.
Her kindness was the first
dddI understood,
next to wanting.
When she was near,
aaaaI forgot
aaaaaaawhat anger meant.