Every time you cross my mind
I pick a leaf off the heap on the floor
next to the almond tree on my way to school.
It’s sudden and intimate, it’s can’t be controlled.
The dew on summer mornings,
the cringes when hearing the owls hoot.
These things are inevitable where I used to live.
Who, may I ask?
Who do you remember? Who is this that owns all these leaves and memories?
If I may ask.
you can. But I can’t answer
for you will mock me and call me a naive and not so strong a woman.
You would use it against me. I know it.
The birds chirped and whistled that morning,
inviting me to a universal feast of my endurance.
My endurance of being away
away from where I used to live.
AICHA BINT YUSIF 