believing it an act of providence, those first few weeks
we fucked through noon, played movies on the projector.
i am concerned for my safety and will be taking time off.
i wrote this naked, concerned for nothing, in love enough
to leave the sheets salt-stiff. the bills in their envelopes.
i was emboldened, blasphemous. would say, “your thighs
are my N95” & while she laughed, i lifted her legs & wore
her over my mouth. nothing was funny on the news, each
morning marking a new high score. i was so profoundly sad,
sad as her eyes on the clouds. the other shoe had dropped
in my lap, & nothing belonged to us. i slept the way i ate, when
ever & as much. her breath fogged the glass. outside, essential
workers cleared the street in masks. the great pause heaved.
i thought i am not worth a single concern whenever she kissed
me. the city lived & died without us touching any part of it.
that thrill! to be dead & not dead at all, still very much
around, wondering what if anything you would miss.
Ghinwa Jawhari
Ghinwa Jawhari is the author of BINT (2021), winner of Radix Media's Own Voices Chapbook Prize. Her essays, poetry, and fiction appear in Catapult, Mizna, Narrative, The Adroit Journal, The Margins, SPEAK, and elsewhere. She is a recipient of fellowships from Kundiman (2023) and the Asian American Writers' Workshop (2021). Based in Brooklyn, she is the founding editor of Koukash Review. More at ghinwajawhari.com.
