Maya Kaabour

Edition XXV

The Making Of A Modern Day Woman - by Maya Kaabour (Photo by Hakim El Haj)Photo credit: Hakim El Haj

The Making of a Modern Day Woman

By Maya Kaabour

This is no tribal rite of passage.
The villagers have gone to sleep centuries ago.
There are no songs to be sung.
No skinning of sheep.
No sun salutations.
No nets with enraged ants to be cast on the hands
of the young ones.

There are train stations that keep buzzing.
Cities with writings on their walls that are kinder than
the faces in them.
There are cellars and rats and sky scrapers cast so high
they could almost pierce the stratosphere.
There are bars and parks
 and there’s prime time TV, too.

But something is changing.

The girl no longer laughs wholeheartedly,
and she cries like she hasn’t shared the full story.
She writes too little and day-dreams too much.
Her hands are learning to open up jars and unzip dresses
and struggle to pay bills and
 drunk-grip steering wheels in traffic where

The train stations keep buzzing.
The cities have writings on their walls that are kinder than
the faces in them.
There are cellars and rats and sky scrapers cast so high
they could almost pierce the stratosphere.
There are bars and parks
and there’s prime time TV, too.

She wears her make up like it’s war paint,
and circles the dancefloor; a mating dance.
Fat perverts who resemble her father offer her drinks and say
“Hey honey, give me another chance!”

But something is changing.

A beast is rising from the ashes.
Her tongue is a hard cut diamond.
She is God; but she is not forgiving.
Hell, she’d eat your heart out if she wanted.

She will wait for no one, cater to no one.
She will take up as much space as she needs and
She’ll ask for what she wants when she wants it.

You can hear it in the click of her stilettos.
She cares very little what you think of her.
She’ll sleep alone tonight with all the lights off, while

The train stations keep buzzing.
The cities have writings on their walls that are kinder than
the faces in them.
There are cellars and rats and sky scrapers cast so high
they could almost pierce the stratosphere.
There are bars and parks
and there’s prime time TV, too.

But something is changing,
and so is she.
The woman has awoken.
The little girl has gone to sleep.


Edition XXVI

On The Topic of Love - by Maya Kaabour (Photo by Hakim El Haj)Photo credit: Hakim El Haj

On The Topic of Love

By Maya Kaabour

There is no good love or bad love
No right love or wrong love
Maybe short loves and long loves
Or love that isn’t great with timing.

Love that rings your doorbell
when you’re not home
or arrives too late
long after the guests have left
and the tea has gone cold
and the cookies have crumbled.

There’s the “I wish I did things better” kind of love,
and the “I remember you when John Mayer appears on shuffle”
kind of love,
and the “You remind me of my mother” kind of love.

Some loves grant you your first kiss
in seventh grade.
Those ones play in your head on repeat.
A reminder of when things were simpler
and life was sweet.

Some loves lose 30 pounds,
grow a beard, and move to
Rome
to forget you.

Some loves belong to different
religions so they never agree
on a wedding venue.

Some loves can’t speak to each other –
They get lost in the clutter.
So they morph into silent letters
and hide in words –
always written but never uttered.

Some loves are half loves,
some loves are not loves,
some loves are really hates.
Some loves turn out to be lusts
so they never really ache.

Some loves stay in the closet
playing hide and seek,
waiting for someone to find them –
waiting for someone to remind them –
that everything’s going to be okay.

Some loves are young loves,
they always want to play games.
Some loves abandon their lovers
long before they’ve gotten a name.

Some loves are monstrous loves,
they hide under your bed.
Some loves remain unrequited,
so they fuck with your head.

Some loves light up like
fireflies in glass jars –
Some loves are too shy to
buy you a drink at the bar.

Sometimes new loves start
looking like old loves…

But the ones I find the most intriguing
are the loves that stay
long after they have left:
Their unused tooth-brush a solemn reminder –
The weight of their missing bodies,
an elephant in your bed.

But some love is always better
than no love.

Welcome it with open arms.
Listen to the pebbles being
thrown at your window.

Let it break you.
Let it take you.

The heart is a muscle we forget to exercise often.


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