to decipher the insidious signals
has become a mind-game. each hello, a game
of chess. hidden behind each fiber of small talk
with a friend there is now always a listen, we got the visa,
dressed as words of triumph, awaiting congratulations. you’ll
never guess who’s leaving! but i can.
tugged within the grasp of a war-torn staircase
in Achrafieh a man who spoke with stars once said
my happiness awaits me upon a foreign
land. not here, but there, in emphasis.
he handed me a blue eye and said
to wrap it around my neck — a talisman
for my imminent journeying. dumb-struck and
scared and barely thirteen but i was famished
to know what awaits. always famished to know what
awaits. we paid him in birthday gift liras and ran out
as fast as we could. would you do it? Maya asked,
catching breath and leaning on a wall, unpacking
a sour candy her aunt had gotten her from Amrika. I don’t
know, I had told her. I couldn’t. there were all the tales
of cousins Myspace-ing their ways into the arms of
foreign men with promises of security. for a while
I had thought that was what was expected. to linger
here until promise body forths and calls my name into
its luring grounds. but would you go? Maya asked,
sparkling sounds of sugared acids seasoning
her every question. I would, she had proclaimed.
Akid. I knew she would. I remember being amazed by
her readiness to change air. the second day, school sent us
home early; an اغتيال had taken place again — the children
must be in the safety of home. I remember
the ecstasy we felt, Maya and I. إعراب was
no longer part of our day. we were too young to
understand the magnitude. when I speak to her now,
it is through expressions of sympathy. her Syrianness carried
her to the asylumatic warmth of Quebec and I have
not seen her ever since. when the Port of
Beirut exploded last year, she raised funds. HELP
THE PEOPLE OF BEIRUT, it was called
among vast oceans of international currencies to assist
our people — the left-behind, oppressed, suffocating
people. the outshiners lending hand to the ones who
have not yet mustered enough gut to get up
and leave. i remember gazing at the gunpowdered sky the day
after our government killed us, envious of the divine
dance the starlings weaved there, parting ways
with the land that tried so goddamn hard
to cut off their wings, wondering
when I would be following their lead.
By Perla Kantarjian
Perla Kantarjian is a Lebanese-Armenian writer whose works have been published in numerous publications, both print and online. Among her accomplishments are first-prize creative writing awards, both at the secondary school and university level. Her writing pieces have been published in various publications and magazines, including Bookstr, Elephant Journal, Academia, and more. Her most recent publications have been and will be in The Armenian Weekly, Stripes Magazine, Panoply, Rusted Radishes, The International Literary Quarterly, Otherwise Engaged, Indelible, The Hellebore, and Anti-Heroin Chic. Apart from her adventures with creative and journalistic writing, Kantarjian also teaches English literature and journalism at the International College in Beirut, is an invited Creative Armenia network member, and works as a freelance content writer for Bookstr. Her poem, “but i am only fiercely dreaming,” published in the 17th issue of Panoply, was recently selected as Editors’ Choice.