Jessy Assy

A man once covered his entire body in

tattoos of flies and skeletal bones

and became known as the living corpse.

When asked why he did so, he answered simply

that he wanted his outside to reflect

how he felt on the inside.

I wonder if where he came from

roosters crowed at dawn

the way they are supposed to

since from my shut window in Hamra

all  I see are busy streets filled with cars

and their irate busy horns.

I find my way around Bliss Street

but there are hurdles.

Interruptions.

Beggars are always blessing my wedding ring

and wishing me a fertile uterus

while my phone continuously vibrates

amusing itself with news notifications

of political leaders advising their citizens

not to visit my country any time soon.

Meanwhile, Islamic Adan chymes in the background

as my mind wanders off to the Japanese art

of “repairing with gold” that which is damaged and flawed

with the understanding that the overall item

must not be concealed but celebrated as it

is more beautiful now because it was broken.

But there is no amount of gold

that can put my country back together again.

There are only scraps and morsels

of leftover meals in month-old garbage bags,

and though it’s a dog-eat-dog world out there

Beirut, was never hungry.