by Najiba Abdellaoui
The drumbeat, heartbeat
Recite an ancient rhyme
Medals are being granted to the outspoken
While a kid blows ashes on the memory of the broken
Standing on the cracked doorstep
(cockroaches enter openly)
I realise rules have changed
Keys are thrown in the blackness of the ocean
Truly free are the caged
Cages of golden glass, hypermodern, DVD
I hear ‘Order now, get the security system for free’
Outside, ships are loaded on the shores of misconception
I had a letter today, writing me swimming is not the answer
As I approach the middle end of the faceless room,
It gets covered in a night like loom
I see an elder man writing figures in the
sand
And then, there she is
She looks tired, dead tired
Daughter of ‘Let it be’
Mother, ancient mother of ‘Until it affects me’
Tired is she of walking on her last shoes
Manolo Blahniks with red laces, broken loose
Succession of artificiality since the Romans
She looks over the shoulder of a lawmaker,
who prefers to call himself lifesaver,
And out loud, she reads from his paper:
Personal Space
No
matter the rhythm of your drums,
your
solos, the sound of your tongue
I
will sing with you
As
long…
No
matter what you prepare,
what
you keep, what you share
I
will share with you
As
long as you…
No
matter the shine of your smile,
the
colour of your tears, your style
I
will feel with you
As
long as you don't...
No
matter who you hate,
where
you stand, your taste
I
will stand with you
As
long as you don’t invade…
No
matter how you rule,
your
values, teachings in school
I
will rule with you
As
long as you don't invade
my
personal
No
matter who you are,
where
you're from, your faith
I’ll
be with you
As
long as you don’t invade
My
personal space
However..
If
you start to glance at my grass, compare my more to your less,
our
small talk turns into silence and word on the streets is violence
I
will condemn you
Then
the hell with your values, your style, your race,
your
rage, your love, your faith
The
colour of your tears,
your
rhythm, your plates
I
promised you beforehand that after hand will not be the case
If
you do indeed invade my personal space
Makes her existence more desertful than a medicine to thirst
On the corner of roller blades and a chilly subways
She oversees her work
The first sob reaches her left toes, the Manolo’s hurt
She disappears at the moment I reach the back window
Below unfolds a forgotten stain, where once laid a pillow
Slowly the stain shapes into a body
A shaking, cold, sweaty, thin, probably ill, somebody
Fascinated I lean closer as it gravely mutters:
“Could you please…please get me a glass of water?”
Najiba Abdellaoui is a young Moroccan
Dutch poet.