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Noor Hindi

Remember the band director chasing us with our instruments? Oh trombones. Oh bumblebees.

Ode to Friendship

            Edgewater Beach, 2019

The night so warm I could fall in love
with anything
including myself. My loves. You are the only people
I’d surrender my softness to.
The moon so blue. And yes, what’s gold
is gold. What’s real
is us despite
a country so grieved, so woke, so death.
Our gloom as loud as shells.

Listen. Even the ocean begs.
Put your hands in the sand, my friend.
It’s best we bury ourselves.
What’s heavy.               What’s heavy?
Becomes light.

What is Endless, What is Gold

I am throwing a net at the sun. I am collecting sunshine. The sun wears an evil eye. It shines it in my face. At Home Depot, I steal all their yellow. Golden Cricket. Vanilla Milkshake. Upbeat. Corn Stalk. I eat catalogs of paint samples. Summer Bliss. Neon Light. Fuzzy Duckling. My mother holds a dish sponge in her hand. Soap suds in her eyes. When I say yellow, I mean death. When I say death, I mean to tell you about the pears. Unripe and yellow. We used to throw them at the sky. Watch them rotate in a cloud. As a child, I couldn’t stop drawing the sun. Crayola, Crayola. Where are you now? Then they took the sun from me. Daffodil. Beehive. Filtered Moon. And Sweet. Remember the band director chasing us with our instruments? Oh trombones. Oh bumblebees. We made blueberries with our lemons. We made bowties out of chokeholds. My mother wore too much perfume. Oh yellow liquid. Sometimes I suffocated. And the grass was so yellow. And the memories so sharp we stuck them between our teeth. Like toothpicks. Like streetlights. Like the eggplants my mother would fry. Sprinkle salt on their bitter. June Day. Golden Rae. Saffron Strands. English Custard Paint. What I remember makes me tank. Makes me yellow, not blue. Makes me hazard. When I say yellow, I mean yarrow. Maybe yay. Maybe fly. When I say yellow, I mean hope. I mean light. As in, keep moving. Open your arms. Stitch a net with me, my loves. Together, we’ll catch the sun. I bet it tastes so sweet.

Noor Hindi (she/her/hers) is a Palestinian-American poet. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in The Rumpus, Winter Tangerine, and Cosmonauts Avenue. Her essays have appeared or are forthcoming in American Poetry Review, Literary Hub, and Adroit Journal. Hindi is the Senior Reporter for The Devil Strip Magazine. Visit her website at noorhindi.com.