Mira Hamade

Edition II

Kintsugi - by Mira Hamade

(Kintsugi is the Japanese art of repairing broken pottery with lacquer mixed with powdered gold)

By Mira Hamade

Mend his cracks,
Kisses will wipe out the rust.
He’s been injured,
Bruised by sharp edges of lust.

Mind his scars,
They will guide you through his soul.
Fire’s almost out,
Still, you could get burnt by coal.

Mold his smile,
Dust off the remains of pain.
Clean his closets,
Some skeletons still remain.

Mourn his loss,
At raging wars fought meekly.
Crown him with praise,
Those wrinkles hold a story.

Edition XV

No Title - by Mira Hamade (photo by Clem Onojeghuo)Photo credit: Clem Onojeghuo

No Title

By Mira Hamade

I’ve played this in my head quite a few times,
I’d be sitting across the table from you.
In the background there’d be music and rhymes,
We would have a bottle of white wine, or two.

Our glasses would clink and we’d laugh over chimes,
You’d tell me the story behind your wrist tattoo.
I’d tell you why I think this city is a maze worth a dime,
You’d smile because we have kindred world views.

I’ve played this in my head before, you know,
Two wild flowers grown between cement bricks.
Trying to reap from each other what we’ve sown,
Sick of the quick, the flick, the smudged lipstick.

You’d let me in on your life’s cornerstone,
You’d blame your meek honesty on the kick.
Not sure who’d won at this game of wishbone,
We’d both hope there’s no short end to this stick.

I’ve played this in my head some time ago,
The clock would strike midnight theatrically.
We’d laugh at how it’s already tomorrow,
We’d feel caught off guard by reality.

I’d signal the waiter for one more Pinot,
You’d smirk at my coy whimsicality.
We’d wish it would never be time to go,
Yet all yields to ephemerality.

I’ve played this in my head like a record,
We’d be on my couch flipping through vinyl.
We’d walk in alleyways and parks fettered,
Controverting over the noble and the trifle.

I never thought it would end up in a letter,
A shot at a poem without a title.
Poor artistry pouring from a feather,
Merely a poem, more of an idyll.

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