By Maya Borhani
When I stepped out
into the purpled night air
even the rain smelled like you,
harvest of flowers, citrus,
sadness spiced with hard-earned salt.
A prayer of dusky cinnamon.
How is it
you carry
the gardens of Lebanon
in your tousled, refugee
hair? The scent of you
under an unfaithful moon
disarms me,
the rain washed world
a blanket of storied scent
blown roses, dripping cedar boughs,
bite of lemons
and you
moving through the marketplace
half a world away
across town
without me.
Copyright Borhani 2013
Maya Borhani grew up among eucalyptus, wild nasturtiums, and sour grass blossoms in Berkeley, California, before migrating to the great central valley, and later the Sierra Nevada foothills of northern California. A former resident of Lopez Island, her work has appeared in previous issues of Shark Reef, as well as in an upcoming special UNESCO issue of Multi-Disciplinary Research in the Arts. Maya has recently completed a Master of Arts degree in Language and Literacy Education at the University of British Columbia, Vancouver, on the topic of poetic inquiry and a/r/tography (the conflagration of artist/researcher/teacher). When not studying or writing, Maya spends her time hiking, playing in the dirt, and reveling in sunshine and beachcombing.
All work by Maya Borhani
