I know there is a verse or two I have learned through the religious fervor of my progenitors. This month: no attacks. On the first day, your superiors inform you that the tents are full of sex. I believe in the revolution confined to my privates. I believe in your naiveté. Your superiors initiate the battle. I ride through the confrontation in a taxi, or I get out on the bridge and walk through. The soldiers are a living monument. They perform by looping the garden, shaping a noose around the demonstration. Everything is gone but the garbage and a group of waving hands. There is noise. Is this the center of the revolution? It no longer looks like a festival.
There is no way to be an outsider anymore. Now I overlook the interior, although I don’t totally understand your emotion when you wave your fingers in so many directions. Whatever happened to “The Poor First” or to your anger? You pass right by me with a smile. I grasp your hand and want to hold on, and I almost say, “Tomorrow,” as you move into the distance. I anticipate you forgetting me.
What do I do with all these sighs trapped inside? I want to lose myself in a pool of fluids; this is what I left for. Right now I am listening out the window, and there is shouting as the sun rises, but I’ve never located it. I keep looking over at you with my tender eyes. The riot trucks are lined up. The riot police already look exhausted. I can hear you laughing and it’s so inappropriate.
1 August 2011
Amira Hanafi is a writer and artist living in Cairo. She is the author of “Forgery” (Green Lantern Press, 2011) and “Minced English.”