After the Flood

By Oula Miqbel 

I.

Stacked stones sit on marble and concrete,

The feeling of safety crashes and crumbles,

Under these semantic statements,

And we are forsaken.

 

The hopelessness of purposeless posture,

Rests on the shoulders of the brave.

But no one is coming.

 

The tail end of headlights in the fog will not clear this mist,

we drench ourselves in these moments with little reprieve.

The salvation we hoped was coming, has been rebuked,

and we’ve been led astray.

 

II.

We tired of grand pastures and ran towards the sea,

and the swells swallowed us with little hesitation.

 

Beneath the water we found ourselves submerged in the belly of the deep,

where breathing became so hard.

Our lungs filled with water and all that was left was this moment.

Entranced in the tarantism, where life meets death and our bodies obey.

 

Submerged before we washed up,

hoping to see where the world lay flat,

but how bitter was this belittling irony.

 

We came close enough to the surface.

Only to be taunted by the cruelty of relentless waves.

 

III.

But there, new worlds were created.

Underlands became home to those of us unseated in this kingdom.

Buildings of substance mocked this sublime existence.

We devastated both realms,

muddled by land and by sea.

Pushed back where we were not meant to stand,

and still, we could not see anything.

 

We are still captivated by this space,

Fond of the darkness,

we spark the first flame.

And now it is ready to repeat.

 

Oula Miqbel is a graduate student at the California State University Stanislaus, where she studies literature with an emphasis on narrative construction and oral story telling traditions in Middle-Eastern mythology, folklore, and fairytales.