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Readings

Readings:

January 11: Baltimore, Pratt Library, reading with Kim Jensen

January 13: Baltimore, Red Emma’s Books, reading with Willona Sloan and Derrick Weston Brown

 

January 14: New York City, Word Bookstore, Reading with VONA writes tBd

January 16: New York: Bluestocking Books.

 

January 17: D.C. a salon featuring my book and Manal Deeb’s art work TBD

January 18: DC: Sunday Kind of Love, Split This Rock, Busboys and Poets

 

March 5: Monterrey CA. University of California, Monterrey Bay

April 16: Merced, CA: University of California, Merced

 

Appearances 

 

Minneapolis AWP: Event Title: Writers of Color Moving Beyond the Boundaries of Our Communities: A VONA/Voices Writers Panel

Scheduled Day: 4/10/2015

Scheduled Time: 12:00:PM - 01:15:PM

Scheduled Room: Room 101 F&G, Level 1

 

Event Title: Arab-American Writers: A Reading & Discussion

Scheduled Day: 4/9/2015

Scheduled Time: 04:30:PM - 05:45:PM

Scheduled Room: Room 200 B&C, Level 2

Upcoming Events

For the digital press kit, click here 

 

 VIDEOS

 

This House, My Bones From Willow Lit

This House, My Bones, Political Intelligence

 

 

 

From the Proper Purgation...

...these words are not enough
are not coming as quickly as tragedies do
our language is not our language instead
invented by the murder of the heart,
of hearts ruptured by magnitude coming
too fast and the words hold fire hanging ...

 

 

 

 

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This House My Bones

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Writer's Statement

The conversation with history is witnessed by the earth and etches the collisions on its body—every rock and road, riverbed and meadow hold the marks of migrations, escapes, exiles, alienations, aging and evolutions. In This House, My Bones, the body and the earth exchange their positions and perspectives. The memories of war are on the skin as well as on the mesa, the exile is written in dust and cells. Through mining experience of occupation, dislocation, and aging, I created poems where the body and the earth examine their bruises.

 

 

 

from Falling Into The Ocean

...In exile we write of lost cities, countries that formed the friction ridges on our fingerprints;
every story pushes harder  as if articulation is redemption          or at the very least allows us
to point to the place on the map where the house once stood. Maybe all of that:
houses and schools, roads and churches, even the neighbors are less the point
when the foundation gives way. Everything can be lost just that quick.