FROM THE PAPER CAMERA

STILL SCATTERED We were in Paris there was a draft , white and crisp moving in from the window above the kitchen sink on green suede, an old fauteuil curved like a leaf we sat lined up, my sisters, brother and I, oldest to youngest against framed photographs of sons getting married, a first husband in black and white Be careful what you say, it will be recorded, you said, cautious of writers your hair was still young, soft and gray at the roots and you, but a clause, small sentence, in between I am glad you can no longer hear the news, more war.

OUR SKIES RIP OPEN If you arrive before me, you said and the rain that wouldnt cease, remember to rub your palm against the sandstone walls or a long ago rooftop where we slept warm and I unraveled in the corner of your misconstrued street and near a railway drawn towards the sea, I found you too late, fields disappeared beneath cities with potatoes, radishes and hopes of heaven and I knit a plane, wings crocheted from orange blossoms fastened to each other with a green line that I stole from your pocket, on a sleepy morning when buses jumped through bullet holes in buildings windows stained pink with rosewater, stretched out like an old sweater, among rifles, long with straight spines, the parentheses of foreign universities, and again, there is no electricity and I dont find it quite so romantic, the weariness of travel.

DO NOT RETURN THERE IS NOTHING HERE FOR YOU 1. Sand drags heavy from Trablous to Sour, pouring glass or time into stitched bags like pillows piled up for better viewing, less sound twisting, my neck hurts when I kiss you for too long in the front seat waiting for a wave through a checkpoint, for the sun to descend I empty the sand, piles unto the neighbors balcon, an aging plant cigarette butts and a bucket resined with soapy water submerged, I hang the thick canvas with wooden clips, little girls barrettes, they dry stiff 2. Behind the billboard, nine squares of thin wood set shadows smooth, leaving out the chipped walls whose fabric bore thread long ago and her hand presses steam flat against an ironed shirt she doesnt notice the watermarks on her palm, no gloves, and dishes keep piling against the bleached sink dusted with broken glass. Even in daytime the merchants long metal grates are cranked down, aluminum wrapping the leftovers and the building facades itself into slogans 3. Our frames carved out by the ignited sky caving in windows and doorways erasing the long lines of slanted rooftops. Her foot arches when she steps on bits of stories, her boots are too thick to know, too new and the blue shutters flap flat against the house, the deadened sound of clapping. Across, she leans her length against the cold metal, elbows tense, she is speaking to_____that is not the point, we descend dark staircase to a club built like a coffin lined in red velvet, dancing pop and hip hop in a bunker, memento, keychain, a rabbits foot sweaty inside the pocket of my jeans 4. On the verandas symmetrical curls loosen themselves out to dry and I climb the holes that mimic mountainous grooves with small breaths I squint in the bright gray light, looking for you to lasso a rope around my waist pull me up, but the rooftop is eaten away like a slice of semolina cake still dripping honey. My mouth opens unintentionally, dark in the windowpane what could have been an Egyptian armoire, a low table carved in Damascus, lovers fighting figuratively 5. Wires and nests grow underneath the seven layers of a wedding cake, a sunken city, a building shaded by the twists of an oak tree the economy is bad, she says, do not return, there is nothing here for you, columns made from shaved walls stand grinning between floors, and apartments once separating aunts from in-laws have joined in the underwater archeology of tangled seaweed, the algae green of what was, I will always believe penicillin heals, from the inside out

THE DIFFERENCE IS A MINUTE TONGUE INDUCED DIFFERENCE Variations between letter and sound Kha is released from the back of the throat force and muscle spit and saliva and tongue against teeth.

When they ask where you come from, tell them: Dont believe in origins. Authenticity died with Colonialism. Find a worn phrase book, practice saying Ghorba. home outside of language. Ghorba: Gha is a fricative sound. Even if your mouth is closed (you are a mouthpiece).

Youmna Chlala is a writer and an artist born in Beirut & based in New York. Her work investigates the relationship between fate and architecture through prose, poetry, drawing, video and performance. Her writing has appeared in journals & magazines such as Guernica, CURA, Bespoke, MIT Journal for Middle Eastern Studies and XCP: Journal of Cross Cultural Poetics. She is the Founding Editor of Eleven Eleven {1111} Journal of Literature and Art and the recipient of the Joseph Henry Jackson Award for her manuscript, The Paper Camera. She is an Associate Professor in the Humanities & Media Studies Department at the Pratt Institute.