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July 2018

my mother thinks trump is the dajjal  calls the non-arab men in my life “international”   she does not understand isis  because “prophet mohamed said be mindful when eating garlic  so as not to harm others so why does daesh think it is ok to kill people”  like her nephew at 19 right before christmas of ’14.   i tell her about a time i was turned down by a boy because i wear hijab she says “ohhh you mean       the way that you do”  i say “no mama, i mean           the fact that i do”    i overhear my father on work calls,  tossing in ya3nis and yallahs  too engrossed in the topic to realize  he’s using arabic.   i

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  For Connor James Nye, 3 months old   You smile at everyone. When lifted, toted, you hold onto shoulder or sleeve, gazing curiously, each room or face. Irish sheep, stuffed puppy, your daddy’s clown. Dwelling in a tender current of care, you know nothing of cruelties people do to one another. You did not see the intricate avenues of Aleppo. Tiled ceilings, arching rooms. The villages of Palestine could still be neatly terraced in your brain. When you smile, we might all be wishing each other well. When you startle at a loud sound, await the power of softness to settle

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TARTEEL((Transliteration of Arabic “ترتيل ,” a chanted hymn or ode)) TO TRANSLATOR   for Alex Foreman Remember November, when Beirut was inflames and each by each I read the namesto match the bodies stacking high there,like sticks I used to pitch wide myskin here, to feel my city’s stingcross sea-wind, rememberhow you knew sharpsticks are good for reaching? Remember then how you would not staymy reaching hands from these namesthat cracked my city like my skin,or from my love for a Beirut Ican’t stay from or stay in,as you knew to hold meback would stayno fallout? Remember how you were no new wallagainst how

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The heart of the city expensedlinen mornings considerfurther a corner is weeping for the verticallabelled unreliable pleaselove me the spread as with other meansa familiar block withina pomegranatebleeding we are not about structureangels fall intowe matter pin clamped and molten leadthe unfurling breeds consider compassioncast by the waysidemarbled threadsa die tiling note the option while church while mosquethe roof and stored gunpowderseeded light adorn yourself nobody in particular survives the heartgravity fills in the lackthe deceased wait we have been repeatedly breeding when St. John the Divine is readthe city will resumebackwards how much is too much personally?

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About Us
Rusted Radishes: Beirut Literary and Art Journal was founded in the English Department of the American University of Beirut in 2012 with the intention of creating a space for both emerging and established writers who have a connection to Lebanon.
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