—Poetry by Anissa Sboui, Sousse, Tunisia
—Photo Courtesy of Public Domain
ALONE
Isabel wanted to take some rest. She was tied up all those years. She forgot to look after herself. The love of work has evaded her plunge into relaxation. Her daughters were the archaic thing she was thinking about. She had always told herself that it was high time to refresh her frustrated mind, rejuvenate her suffocated body, and revive her troubled soul. All she yearned for was a moment of relief aloof from hectic arrangements. On that rainy day, she switched on the television, watched her favorite soap operas. Then, she rushed to the dark kitchen to get some crunchy cookies. When she opened the fridge, the captivating smell of grilled chicken made her taste wine in her spinning hair. Hungry, she was, and lonely, as the children were at the nightclub. Bringing grapes and bananas made her feel good. It was an act of internal cleanliness. She sat by the window, in pink pullover and jeans, barefoot, dreamily staring at the passers-by. She marveled at the speed with which they were heading to their apartments in the Chinese neighborhood. She thanked God for being alone after all those absurd days, filled with busy schedules. She waited and waited for her daughters to come home; but they did not. Maybe they came late that dizzy night. All she remembered was a profound sound of deafness. Sluggishly, she longed for going to bed to not replicate the same sad stories of her agonizing past. Had she the will to get up sane, she would have slept without the sleeping pills. She kept edging into a surreal torment. A sense of grim aberration caught her into a spiral of delusions. With a delirious monologue, a lapse of guilt wrapped her like a bandage placed around the ankle of a gutted football player. She had enough money, yet she had sufficient agony, too. She just wanted to fall asleep. Like a defeated soldier, she threw that asexual feminine body on that ancient bed. Covered with her fluffy blanket, Isabel dived into another realm that was for the first time her own… Dreaming about the extreme version of absurdity as she was the true victim of her skeptical deals. Scattering the sly ingredients, stepping down the prison-like castle, crushing the homemade poison, time was not on her side. She usually fought to the last minute, undermining the slightest combat going inside of her psychic pursuit for order. But that crazy night, she wanted to readjust the scrambled puzzle of her threatened life only.
___________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Anissa Sboui for today’s prose poem, all the way from Tunisia! Anissa is a university teacher and poet from Tunisia, the writer of seven volumes in Arabic and English languages. Welcome to the Kitchen, Anissa!
Isabel wanted to take some rest. She was tied up all those years. She forgot to look after herself. The love of work has evaded her plunge into relaxation. Her daughters were the archaic thing she was thinking about. She had always told herself that it was high time to refresh her frustrated mind, rejuvenate her suffocated body, and revive her troubled soul. All she yearned for was a moment of relief aloof from hectic arrangements. On that rainy day, she switched on the television, watched her favorite soap operas. Then, she rushed to the dark kitchen to get some crunchy cookies. When she opened the fridge, the captivating smell of grilled chicken made her taste wine in her spinning hair. Hungry, she was, and lonely, as the children were at the nightclub. Bringing grapes and bananas made her feel good. It was an act of internal cleanliness. She sat by the window, in pink pullover and jeans, barefoot, dreamily staring at the passers-by. She marveled at the speed with which they were heading to their apartments in the Chinese neighborhood. She thanked God for being alone after all those absurd days, filled with busy schedules. She waited and waited for her daughters to come home; but they did not. Maybe they came late that dizzy night. All she remembered was a profound sound of deafness. Sluggishly, she longed for going to bed to not replicate the same sad stories of her agonizing past. Had she the will to get up sane, she would have slept without the sleeping pills. She kept edging into a surreal torment. A sense of grim aberration caught her into a spiral of delusions. With a delirious monologue, a lapse of guilt wrapped her like a bandage placed around the ankle of a gutted football player. She had enough money, yet she had sufficient agony, too. She just wanted to fall asleep. Like a defeated soldier, she threw that asexual feminine body on that ancient bed. Covered with her fluffy blanket, Isabel dived into another realm that was for the first time her own… Dreaming about the extreme version of absurdity as she was the true victim of her skeptical deals. Scattering the sly ingredients, stepping down the prison-like castle, crushing the homemade poison, time was not on her side. She usually fought to the last minute, undermining the slightest combat going inside of her psychic pursuit for order. But that crazy night, she wanted to readjust the scrambled puzzle of her threatened life only.
___________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Anissa Sboui for today’s prose poem, all the way from Tunisia! Anissa is a university teacher and poet from Tunisia, the writer of seven volumes in Arabic and English languages. Welcome to the Kitchen, Anissa!
For upcoming poetry events in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
in the links at the top of this page.
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
in the links at the top of this page.
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
