My rock























Without the pebbles
boulders
flat rock
ravines
or trenches
dug out by years
of erosion
the frenetic
bubbling water
would flood
the soil
sidewalks
city streets
and then nature
would be off-balance.
For with every impulsive
action
must exist a steady
reaction
and hence, sediment
was formed,
not to barricade
the unpredictable
river,
but rather
to gently and naturally
mark its place
amidst the chaos
and guide it
safely home
to the ocean.


© 2020 Andrea Festa

Habibi

As featured on Ephemeral Elegies






Seated in Sukhasana,
head over heart
heart over pelvis,
I lower my gaze
to my chest.
Large pores, nascent
stages of wrinkling,
span my cleavage.
Boldly on display, joining
blood blisters
and freckles
and fine baby hairs.
I’m proud of these marks.
My mom has them.
My aunt, too, who bronzes
better than all the
women in this family.
Matriarch of the Decker women
Lineage. Gypsies and thieves.
Allegedly.

Hands folded in Anjali Mudra,
I lift my chin in sun salutation.
Ask, “Who were those Lebanese
women before me?” who
make up my composite parts.
Real, pioneer women,
babies at their hips and breasts.
Long, crooked noses cast down
on men there solely for utility.
Situs talking shit over
kibbeh nayyeh.
Lean hands dipping Syrian bread,
Molding girls into sharp, sensitive
women.
Like my mother
and me
and the child that won’t follow.


© 2020 Andrea Festa