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  April 2014
volume 11 number 1
-table of contents-
 
  home   (archived)
 
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  Scott Alexander
  Shawn Aveningo
  Jonathan Beale
  Jack G. Bowman
  Betsy Burke
  Matt Burns
  Shibani Chattopadhyay
  Rachel Coventry
  Tyler Dupuis
  Allison Grayhurst
  John Grochalski
  Hedy Habra
  Samantha Henderson
  Augustus Invictus
  Natalie Itzhaki
  Scott Jacobson
  Alex Johnson
  Mikel K
  Craig Kurtz
  Phillip Larrea
  N.M. Leepsa
  Anthony Magistrale
  Brendan McCormack
  Christopher Mulrooney
  Philip ONeil
  Ebi Robert
  Walter Ruhlmann
  April Salzano
  Jake Sheff
  Rishan Singh
  Julia Stein
  Allen Taylor
  Paul Tristram
  Wanda Vanhoy Smith
  Claire Walker
  Viola Weinberg
  Claire Williams
 
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Hedy Habra
April 2014
   

 

bio


photo by mauricio alejandro ramos

    Hedy Habra has authored two poetry collections, Under Brushstrokes, finalist for the USA Best Book Award and the International Book Award, and Tea in Heliopolis, winner of the USA Best Book Award and finalist for the International Book Award. Her story collection, Flying Carpets, won the Arab American National Book Awards Honorable Mention and was finalist for the Eric Hoffer Award. A recipient of the Nazim Hikmet Poetry Awards, she was a 2015 five-time nominee for a Pushcart and Best of the Net. Her work appears in Cimarron Review, The Bitter Oleander, Blue Fifth Review, Cider Press Review, Drunken Boat, Fifth Wednesday Journal, Gargoyle, Nimrod, Poet Lore, World Literature Today and Verse Daily. Her website is
Hedy Habra

   

 

Encounter in the Yellow Hour

    Youd think were about to engage in an elegant minuet, right hands raised in the ritual sequence of honor, yet her left hand waves the bouquet of wildflowers away from me as mine struggles to hold down my vest blown by the wind: but wait, rewind the tape to when I first saw her walking towards me, as though floating in that sea of wheat, holding wildflowers gathered just for me, for she must have mistaken me from afar for a pirate with my kilt and wide-brimmed hat: how I fooled myself, falling into my own trap, a motionless ready made, unable to take her into high seas like a one-legged sailor, nor make love to her in the golden swaying waves of wheat, I, the trickster would be scarecrow wont come to life like the fairy tale frog, even the scorching heat wont cast away my self-inflicted spell: this is the end of the minuet, the last farewell steps of the ritual sequence of honor, shell let the flowers scatter in the wind, the still dance lasting for an instant merging end with beginning.

copyright 2014 Hedy Habra