Hedy Habra

Flora & the End of the Bird’s Song

Do you think I don’t feel spiraling ferns unfurl all over my moss-covered hair, vibrant like a horse’s mane, tips brushing over my naked shoulders? Don’t you see how pale my skin is from hiding in the shadows of the underwoods, surrounded with silence yet still sensing the growth of each ripening berry, my thoughts mushrooming like foam as I sense slippery serpentine movements and a sudden flutter of wings, both predator and prey feasting on the free meal crowning my head. But why should I feel sorry for the end of the bird’s song? Doesn’t he also stop the worm from unfolding its butterfly’s wings?

First published by Parting Gifts from Under Brushstrokes (Press 53 2015)

 

Expectations  

Face to face, standing in an immobile boat, two lovers are enveloped by a lapis lazuli glow as though out of a painting by Miró revisited by Klein: the deep sea evaporates around them, freeing a school of red fish gliding at ease as in an aquarium: only their fins flicker like fireflies around the nascent crescent, a silent witness to that still scene: the boy holds a loaf of moon in one hand while in the other shines a scarlet star, color of the girl’s bonnet. Slightly bent over his offerings, she reflects, her crossed hands weighing her breasts heavy with promises and songs.

 

First published by Knot Literary Journal from Under Brushstrokes (Press 53 2015) 

I’d Like to Write a Song of Freedom, 2011

The daily news defies me as does the almanac when

early signs of spring sprout, in Egypt & Lebanon,

budding with innocence, walls rise, crushing voices

with indifference. I’d like to write a song of freedom,

a Song of Songs merging the dialects of my youth

into one heart, and share the lush ruby red arils of

Phoenician apples. Syllables fall off the table, lie

formless all over the floor, powerless, unable to unite.

How could they concoct an elixir of hope when time

and again in the land of milk and honey fear settles

its motto in streets steeped in carmine ink where shades

wander, forever haunting the site of their bloodshed.

Unable to decipher the elusive pattern of unuttered

words cluttered between my temples, a heavy armor

pressed against my chest, I only feel the lift and pause

of the waves surrounding silence. Will I ever learn

the language of invisible scars tattooed all over my skin?

First published by Mizna Literary Journal from The Taste of the Earth (Press 52 2019)