Fatima Mansour was born in Chicago to a Palestinian refugee and an Irish-German mother.
She received her BA in English and Classics from Southern Illinois University in Carbondale. She received her MA in English and Secondary Education from DePaul University. She currently teaches English and Writing in a small private school in Illinois. She has two small children and a wonderful husband.
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What It’s Like
A party,
where guests try to tell me what it’s like,
when likening a genocide to anything
seems like a betrayal.
We sip chardonnay in gilt glasses;
I drain my complicity in a single gulp.
The analogies match the drab décor;
rusted drapes smothering an open window.
The host, in diplomatic sincerity,
perhaps tasting the toxicity in the conversation, says—
But the equation never quite, figures.
A variable is undoubtedly missing,
the result always a derivative of the truth.
(Compassionate faces make me pace the room
because I am the subject,
I am the variable that never quite figures).
Exile is like amputation—
a man in tweed says—
Whereas the amputee will always feel
the weight of the missing limb.
Indeed, there must be a connection between
the tree and the branch, the tree and the root.
(My back edges toward the patterned wall;
empathy is a cat with sharp claws).
Exile is like abandonment—
a slight blond says, a phlebotomist—
by parent, by spouse, doesn’t matter,
because alone is alone, after all.
Her tragic teeth bite through a smile.
(A concentric circular pattern,
in coppers and browns, and it embraces me;
their tolerance smothers me and I cannot breathe).
Exile is like forcible rape,
with prolonged penetration,
sinister smiles, laughter accompanying the scream—
a small voice from the corner,
next to the inflatable red chair.
(The cherry stripped from the hardwoods,
chipped by time and stilettos; I am no longer the subject
of their inquiry; a perverse joy clears the air).
All the speakers stop,
tongues jailed by an equation that works.
Effective analogies do not make polite conversation.
Analysis of a Curse
A shoe.
He called me a shoe.
I am almost certain of it,
but my translation might be off.
He said—
You, daughter of gypsies,
Goddamn your father,
that dog,
that son of sixty six generations of shoes.
My curse is actually my father’s,
although they are mad at me.
He is the Bedouin abandoned by God,
the canine son of inanimate objects.
I am just a descendant of that legacy.
It says nothing about my mother—
for all they know, she could be Amira of the Irish Sea.
My wicked mind—I pictured shoes
in a great line
various styles and sizes—
beige platforms and red stilettos
denim wedges and tall, black leather boots of sin—
and cadence of clicking heels walking away.