Habibti Ghazal by Hala Alyan

Habibti Ghazal

Nineteen’s slow violence. Your arm a tusk slicing the air—whoa, habibti—

for that first Jack-and-Coke. Here we go, take it slow, habibti.

Soon, you’ll become an emergency: I.V. bag and emerald bruise. 

First love hammering your door, but you’re no habibti,

no bait turned proposal. On the third page of an old journal, 

the same question in pale ink: Can I be my own habibti?

You glaze-eyed. You lit like a county fair. The long twine 

of a decade, hold the tattoo needle to skin and sew habibti.

Even the sea rots here. This prop city with its prop heart. 

The hot-eyed men whistling the streets: Hello, habibti.

Hello, cream. Hello, daughter of men. Hello, almost-wife. 

I can’t teach you about metaphor; I’m stuck in the future. O, habibti,

I want to see those legs running. There’s the oncoming headlight of boy: 

Ribcage. Fist. War. It’s time, habibti. Please, habibti. Go, habibti.