4 Ekphrasis Poems

Written word responses to persons and places.

Here are some poems describing some things I hold dear.

No Wave Shook You

The impenetrable clouds fell
on the mountains and broke
the morning sky. Mermaids rushed
to catch
the fragments with their soft, white hands, clawing
at and crashing
through each other—limbs, heads, and tails splashing
on the ocean floor. They did not stop
to look
at you, a tangerine about to feel
the force of a stallion stampede. But no wave shook
you, as they charged
past your face, jacket, and beanie. And when they did stop
and see
how well you wore
the evening sun, they withdrew
with the ocean.

Cling

Raindrops hit orange cement; some ricochet and
some trickle down onto grey asphalt, into
pious puddles craving rapture from a callous sun.

Raindrops cling to brown hair; brown hair clings to brown hair;
brown hair clings to tank-top; tank-top clings to skin in shadow;
shadow of a uterus clings to ovarian breasts.
A shadow louder than a sheer Givenchy dress
at some Gala bereft
of vintage Casios and metal bracelets and creased socks in heels and
Gaspar Noé nightmares and Lars von Trier daydreams.

Piglet

I don’t always know
which of us is
soothing the other,

but as of yet
we’re still connected:
hellish existence
preceding
heaven-bound essence.

Muscat

Nine years back, an embassy appointment
ended way earlier than expected;
I had to wait for my dad to come pick
me up—stuck outdoors in the scorching heat.
The only things keeping me company:
a water bottle and Lord of the Flies.

Your pants are the same colour as the road
outside the embassy—gleaming grey in
sunlight. Their tucks of fabric resemble
the Expressway that moves people throughout
Muscat. Its roads, always reliable,
took me places I needed to be and
brought me home. On that day, however, their
asphalt ate and spat heat back onto me.

Your pale sweater and scarf remind me of
Muscat’s houses: gentle on soil; easy
on the eyes; and well aerated. But I
could not enter a house then—embassy
or otherwise.
And as my father was
busy desalinating bits of the
sea behind you, he was to take more time.

There was a tree nearby. Its branches had
grown with the controlled chaos of your hair
falling on your chest; their shade, like the one
on your neck, was cozy and comforting.
I sat by it and continued from where
I left Lord of the Flies off. I abhorred
the book; it was simple in theme and form.
I prefer, instead, the ambiguity
of your smile, squeezing your eyes, chin, and cheeks.