this is a lie
only i gave up
for a win
i can’t fathom
i sit here
pen in hand
like i’m
a poem in
the spaces between lines
my hair atop my head
like an unfamiliar word
in a language i used to speak
and i come back to tongues
circle back to
my aching eyes
and burning shoulders
and in every word there is a hunt
there is an
“i could’ve told you already”
we rest easy
on the couch
in hazy evenings
our fingers gripping glass
smoking everything but green
if i wrote a poem
about your yellow hair
you would know
in my dreams you understand
here’s a messy recital
of everything i haven’t learned to say
in everything i am afraid
in the colors
of every dress
i’ve worn for you
and in every admission
i omit a true confession
Rabha Ashry is an Egyptian, from Abu Dhabi, and based in Chicago. She has a Bachelor of Arts from New York University, Abu Dhabi graduate, and she has recently completed an MFA in Writing at School of the Arts Institute of Chicago. She spends a lot of time doing yoga and reading poems. Hearing her name pronounced right makes her happy in a way she can’t quite describe, and she speaks to her dog in Arabic because she knows she can speak Arabic too. She is the recipient of the Brunel International Poetry Prize 2020. She writes about exile, the diaspora, and living between languages. She has been a fellow at Ox-Bow School of Art. She has done residencies with Holly and the Neighbors and Black Widow Books. She has a chapbook coming out with Black Sunflowers in 2021. Her work has been published in the Oyez review, Collected 2018, Airport Road, Electra Street, and Strange Horizons.