 poetry INDIAN HILL by Lina Makdisi I am rubbing the dark tan wool of your sweater on your back, pressing the blades of your shoulder down flat and you are kicking the dirt and saying that you will not ever and cannot seem to find your grandfather’s grave, that humor is important as a way to cope with sadness, that you do not want to hurt me but that B. is so pretty and J. makes the most beautiful sound when she comes and L. can turn blackbirds into bluebirds. Meanwhile I think I am supposed to notice the shifting of the branches of leaves and how there is no other way to describe a graveyard except to say that it is refreshingly at peace with its stillness but see to my right a sharp white flash and your face like an old man who can’t remember if he took his medication. Have you? Taken your medication?
THE OK by Lina Makdisi Determined, I drag us across great thistle hills
The people are all gone from here I think I am starting to get you
In addition to the stylized way you lick my hand, you are my Mother’s Father Is that OK with everyone here? How come you are laughing? Does it have to do with the relation- ship between art and love? Oh wait, you are expecting some- thing like you are expecting me to respond both orally and in writing
Must you say these things?
Like a piece of wet snow I am falling
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