baba's and my skin: artifacts

I'm coiled and lying dormant
under the yellowed white seat
of an old plastic chair. I fit well
down here, and if baba were to walk
by, if he were to choose not to bend over
and check, I think I could retreat
into the needle-sharp fibers of the rug
holding me, and disappear. I'm tired,
the kind of tired that grants little room
for compromise. his dust-dyed, calloused
feet brush past my back,
and I listen through
my half-awakedness to the roaring
black tea of Friday breakfasts, infused
with backyard mint, sugar and morning gossip.
gratuities to the desert god chime, unsynchronized
around the stubby-legged meal table. I hear the soft
crackling of crisped bread bits broken
down, for sharing, salted olive oil dipping. I'm lulled,
certain of my realities shifting into night dreams
when he draws me back, urging me to feed my small body,
and I am worn to my very bones, eyes
sewn shut and at home
with the unlit dwelling behind my eyelids. 

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Salaam Odeh  is a Jordanian MFA in Fiction graduate student who focuses her writing endeavors on magical realistic prose and reflective poetry. She also fancies dabbling in horror.