|Apr/May 2020 Poetry Special Feature|
Multimedia painting by Janet Bothne
I choked on Sour-Patch Kids,
when I found your old diary,
the dayaa store rancid
or knockoff + expired pack kind
the ones that got Leila sick
and we pretended to get sick too
so that Teta wouldn't make us go to
masjid Nabi Jleel, and stand with bearded men
strangers twice our height whispering praises
to a Lord we didn't understand
and she'd spoon honey into our mouths
to heal us, because the Qur'an said so.
if friendship is made of honey,
no wonder we're hungry for it.
the three of us, as children,
working to build a fortress,
we've since then buried you
underneath it, the lionmane has fallen
hair by golden-brown hair, hair like
strands of honey, lining the ground,
fading with each dying light, until at last,
old friendship is licked away by dust.