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  November 2015
volume 12 number 2
-table of contents-
  home   (archived)
  contributing poets
  Sheikha A.
  M.I Akande
  Gwyndyn Alexander
  Prerna Bakshi
  Gary Beck
  Stefanie Bennett
  Deborah Edler Brown
  Jeffrey Bryant
  Terry Clark
  Robin Wyatt Dunn
  Amitabh Vikram Dwivedi
  Hedy Habra
  Dave Houston
  Trista Hurley-Waxali
  Robert S King
  Marie Lecrivain
  Emma Lee
  Ron Lucas
  Frank Mundo
  Scott Thomas Outlar
  Angel Uriel Perales
  James G Piatt
  Frank Praeger
  Hattie Quinn
  John D Robinson
  john saunders
  Apryl Skies
  Julia Stein
  Jonathan Taylor
  Amy Uyematsu
  J.T. Whitehead
  mailing list
Hedy Habra
November 2015



photo by mauricio alejandro ramos

    Hedy Habra has authored two poetry collections, Under Brushstrokes, finalist for the USA Best Book Award and the International Book Award, and Tea in Heliopolis, winner of the USA Best Book Award and finalist for the International Book Award. Her story collection, Flying Carpets, won the Arab American National Book Awards Honorable Mention and was finalist for the Eric Hoffer Award. A recipient of the Nazim Hikmet Poetry Awards, she was a 2015 five-time nominee for a Pushcart and Best of the Net. Her work appears in Cimarron Review, The Bitter Oleander, Blue Fifth Review, Cider Press Review, Drunken Boat, Fifth Wednesday Journal, Gargoyle, Nimrod, Poet Lore, World Literature Today and Verse Daily. Her website is
Hedy Habra



Or What I Really Do When You Think I'm Knitting

             After Gustave Caillebotte's Mademoiselle Boissi're Knitting

I think of so many doors that were once closed and opened, of all the doors I wish to re-open. My breath espouses the clicking of needles, I count three for a hole, skip a thread for a gap, loops form ephemeral ripples, a wish gone sour, a sunken coin.

At times, I'll erase an entire row, move patterns backwards, relive the moment I crawled into the warmth of my parents' bed. In my grey Shetland shawl, you know, the one wrapped around my shoulders, lie all the emotions, designs, I could ever recreate.

With each lace-hole, sorrow melts a ruffled feather, a caress my fingertips long for, or did you think my back was always bent, hands knotted? Rows of holes form a river that wanders without leaving its bed, a bed of Queen Anne's Lace spreads over the eyes of my skin wounded by the scent of wildflowers.

Memories morph into delicate shapes conjured up as I purse my lips in concentration: my heart bursts in my chest like a ripe pomegranate under noon's sun. Under my tongue a hummingbird flutters at the twitch of each stitch, each stitch, a scar. I play Solitaire with yarn and needle, shuffle and reshuffle at will.

copyright 2015 Hedy Habra