< REVISION 1>

INDIAN COMBAT

Marble, 1868. Edmonia Lewis 

Stolen from stone, 
pressed into battle,
we were called forth
to be warriors.
We never weary, seek
no asylum except
the perpetual hatchet,
the forever blade,
the never-ending arrow,
our fists. Our cause
cuts thicker than blood,
beats beyond bone,
our forms forged
by a brown woman's
brunt, her design over
all our fates entwined
like fingers laced in prayer
for victory, then mercy,
then dug beneath the Earth
to resurrect our very lives.

< REVISION 5 >

INDIAN COMBAT

Marble, 1868. Edmonia Lewis

We three warriors
were called forth
to be, forever, enemies. 
Stolen from marble, 
pressed into slaughter,
we never weary, seek
no asylum except
the perpetual hatchet, 
the eternal blade, 
the never-ending arrow,
our fists that swallow
our senses 'til we
cough up blood
for forgotten causes 
that still cut thicker 
than ancient lust.
Our forms were forged
by a free brown woman's 
brunt, her design for
all our fates entwined
like fingers laced in prayer
for victory, then mercy,
then dug into the Earth 
to resurrect our embattled 
lives lived just as her own:
pounded into memory
with metal and stone.

< final version>

INDIAN COMBAT

Marble, 1868. Edmonia Lewis 

We three warriors
were called forth
to be, forever, enemies. 
Stolen from marble, 
pressed into slaughter,
we never weary. We 
seek no asylum except
the perpetual hatchet, 
the eternal blade, 
the never-ending arrow,
our fists that swallow
our senses 'til we've carved 
ourselves into memorials
for causes long forgotten.
Our fight was forged
by a free brown woman's 
brunt, her design for
all our fates entwined
like fingers laced in prayer
for victory, then mercy,
then dug into the Earth 
to resurrect our embattled 
lives lived just as her own:
pounded into memory
with mettle on stone. 

< DRAFT >

AWARE

There is always that time
when you walk into a room
aware of your abilities, aware
of every book you pored over
like a tablet of strength, coqnizant
that you have done what no one
imagined or expected in the body
that you carry—this clay pot of flesh
that someone asks about its duties, 
its purpose, its ownership, or 
maybe It’s less than significant
flow as someone turns it over
in thirst, unaware that your being
was sustenance, unaware of all
the vessels that molded and fired
you into upright posture, the gift
to hold living in you and share
but I am aware, aware that pot
is never the same as spigot, 
aware, aware of how some
might walk in without knocking,
muddy boots tracked through
my kitchen and try to turn me
upside down, but there are locks
on doors, and this is not the time
to find me quenching your greed
that misses my eyes and hands. 

< REVISION >

AWARE

You walk into a room aware 
of your abilities, aware of every
book forming a tablet of strength, 

cognizant. You have done what no 
one imagined or expected in this body
—this clay pot of flesh, and someone 

doubts its duties, purpose, owner-
ship, or less than significant flow
as someone turns the body over

in thirst, unaware that your being
was sustenance, unaware of all
the vessels that molded and fired

you into upright posture, curvature
of lip. Your sturdy ceramic a gift
that holds life. Be aware, aware a pot

is never the same as a spigot,
aware of how some walk 
in without knocking, muddy 

boots tracked through
your kitchen.
There are locked doors.

This is not an unaware time
to quench another’s greed
that dismisses your hands. 

< DRAFT >

POEM

even now comes back the itch-crawl 
a tree of bites or a snarl of black curls

my aunt drew the comb through my hair steady 
and crushed what she found 

listen, I want back that intimacy
                                                          my head in her hands / a disaster / a delicate tree

I hadn't learned yet / a tree is a household of beautiful birds 

listen, my aunt's name is hasna henna / night blooming jasmine tree 

two oceans from here the names of trees 
grow from my aunt's mouth and her progeny 
in a language the other does not speak 

for years i have not visited my other country 
or walked with my aunt beside the rubble of new trees

I ate rice from a palm tree leaf 

across two oceans my aunt is dying
don't forget, her name is night blooming jasmine tree
across two oceans 
all I do is write poems which heavily feature trees

but what happens if you replace tree
with refugee

all I do is write poems which heavily feature refugees
night blooming jasmine refugee 
once, a man i loved
told me to stop saying two oceans

two oceans two oceans two oceans 
across two oceans i inhaled 

the perfume of a hasna henna tree
my aunt was beside me 

will i know the right time to stay or leave 

listen, when they test my hands 

for gunpowder, tell them I donated 
my own blood to the cause

< REVISION >

INFINITY GHAZAL BEGINNING WITH LICE AND NEVER ENDING WITH LIES

For Hasna Henna and the Rohingya

Lice? My aunt once drew a comb through my hair steady;
she wouldn’t let what feeds on blood eat my inner tree.

Where now is the word for such intimacy? I know it still,
but all I see are jungles burnt of our rarest trees.

My point is: it takes a while to say, “I am a fire hazard,” or,
“a household of rare birds” is another way to say tree.

I wrote one draft of this poem, then she died. Will I
forget her name, Hasna Henna? Let’s smell a tree;

night-blooming jasmine, o-so-heavenly! A sapling
succeeds by flourishing from a tree’s seed.

How else to perfume these needs we breathe? A sapling
of course = a small and soft tree (i.e. baby tree).

I grieve the rice she fed me off a palm leaf.
Only now can I fully marvel: how finely formed is a tree!

Someone I loved said to stop with the oceans in my poems — 
well, oceans + oceans + oceans! We drown so many trees.

(Night blooming tree = baby tree = once and future tree.)
Lately, all I think about are trees.

Read this again to replace tree with refugee.
Tarfia = joy in the margins + one who lies to protect trees.