Photo by JOHN VATER
Alice s. yousef
to the present
pres·ent /prez(ə)nt/: 1. (of a person) in a place.
2. (of things), a gift
3. (of time) the moments occurring now.
[Aided by the Webster Dictionary]
Dear present,
In doubt I have often written to the past. In fear, I have often written to the future.
Never have I written to both. How do I address the possibility of two tenses while I have always been taught to choose? You, like many fine details are the vacuum in between. A lucidity where in a minute you will become a past, in your belly, growing like mature mothers: the future. I am clueless and young.
Present: 1. (of a person) in a place
without much notice, the leaves turn yellow
as if overnight. No one has requested them to wear
the colors of the city, wait, tell me
how did time dye the leaves my window overlooks?
I told you, much happens without notice;
an undercurrent brews on the surface of the river
while young clueless women run, or sit and stare
at a moon that shrinks and grows
there is time, there was time, there will be time
tenses mumble in a mouth that's used to a time zone
that suits the sun, but no one can blame jet-lag
after settling, nor the leaves for taking a red color to impress autumn
much happens without notice;
notice gossip that goes like a merry-go-round,
one name surfaces to the horses
the other name steps off, a circle has no edges
for a small town, people talk a lot, you say
I don't tell you I already know
there's much left for me to walk over:
who consulted the weatherman, how can we kiss
where did we lie last, what is the size appropriate for a bag of longings
why, are we obsessed with mouths
when we have one of our own?
this is an experiment;
how you laugh in bars, how you accept a compliment
how your voice changes with the wind
how do you lose and gain a limb? do you need loss or reattachment?
much happens unnoticed: on a windowsill,
three yellow flowers, open shopping bags on the floor
books unread, work unfinished
cozy beds cannot make possible, deprivation
but there's something noticed here: how we hold on to sleep in sheets,
the way we open doors: a gentle pull
to pull is a verb as strong as it is mechanical
two forces keep a buoy surfacing
Present: 2. (of things), a gift
In Chicago O'Hare, she blesses me
without holy water, with short arms
crystal sharp glass bound into loose
earrings hanging on a stand I keep knocking off
you take your time, honey she winks
how can picking one pair of damned earrings be so challenging?
is it about the gift itself or thinking of putting meaning
to a banal picking up of a gift?
there's no challenge in diversity
just enough room for you to pick a color
then stick to it for the rest of your life
like a child's favorite crayon
I arrive light, leave heavy
this is always a case: a few kilos here and there
but it is never about material
because I am always losing
this is, dear present, what the noise is about
how much you gain, who gives you
the minute as a gift, the book,
the earrings, the perfume bottle
the pat on the back, the photos
the kiss, the wine on the roof
the kindness, the extra egg
the last quarter of a dollar, the cheesecake on your doorstep
the room you sleep in, the vitamins when you are sick
the reality check, the courage to speak
the promise, the ability to forget
in Chicago O'Hare, she blesses me
without holy water, with short arms
crystal sharp glasses bound into loose
earrings hanging on a stand I keep knocking off
I pick purple for the gift:
the color of bruises, thistle and lavender
all at once
Present: 3. (of time) the moments occurring now
music is a language of commons
dance is a language of bodies
I am falling in the language of clichés
around me, English is the language of the powerful
and it is the language of the commons
who manage to stand tall and straight
when their very grandparents had to bend their backs
to carry a load, to receive a whip, to pass a child over to the other side
yet English is the language we gained, powerfully
then there's music, the women sing, pause
there's a lingering scent of a thing left behind
some call it duende, I call it the indentation
the men teach us how to redefine
womanhood, the men sing too
the men dance, the men like us
leave something lingering in the air
before words, was water on the surface of earth
before vulnerability became a tattoo
there was music, notes composed a few minutes
before drowning, dinner, desire
the same way, presently, we compose
these lines. Then there are the walks,
dinners in restaurants that cannot pronounce our names
correctly, too exotic, like exotica
is really just washing out your ears
training the eardrum to the sound of power
in fury, in broken letters, like broken-backed
relatives, charged with an ultimate hunger
there are laughs, there are tears, there are running rivers
there are fears, there is hanin, longing when you cook
there are spices you have never heard of, there are happy
faces and sad stories, not matched, not taken apart
there are sleepless nights, mornings and knights
there is dancing and old juke-boxes, two grocery stores
price comparisons and low carb diets
there is a group, there is an individual
there are matching sweaters, there are unlatching doors
there is a written word and someone speaking it
there's language for greeting and language for parting
language for needing and language for accepting
but English and music are our most common
to say, this present, wouldn't change you is a lie
to say you can go clean from it is a lie
it doesn't mar you, at least with otherness
that's a truth.
Dear present, tell me, when do we stop lingering for answers? Do we every sit back, three women and a moon with cigarettes and wine, leaves floating on a river that floats next to us every day: to enjoy 1. people in a place. 2. a gift. 3. the moments occurring now.
Leave me these as memories, dear present—only you have that power, can you?
In love and Light,
Alice S. Yousef