"telic" by Anna Martin
2 poems by Briana Naseer
Autonomy
I’m a Muslim
with an eating disorder
and I don’t fast for Ramadan.
I play this game with myself
where I wait and see
how many hours I can go
before I let myself
eat--
and I still feel the guilt
no matter how long
it takes,
no matter the amount
I deny
myself.
And I hide it.
Because I know
that no other Muslim
would accept me,
that they’d try
and deny
me,
my access
to God,
if they found out
that there’s always
a battle between
guilt and love
struggling
in the empty pit
of my stomach.
Tonight at iftar,
I sit alone
with the long
summer sun
still bleeding
through the clouds;
I have a mango
and banana bread
and tea;
somehow it still feels
like a celebration.
with an eating disorder
and I don’t fast for Ramadan.
I play this game with myself
where I wait and see
how many hours I can go
before I let myself
eat--
and I still feel the guilt
no matter how long
it takes,
no matter the amount
I deny
myself.
And I hide it.
Because I know
that no other Muslim
would accept me,
that they’d try
and deny
me,
my access
to God,
if they found out
that there’s always
a battle between
guilt and love
struggling
in the empty pit
of my stomach.
Tonight at iftar,
I sit alone
with the long
summer sun
still bleeding
through the clouds;
I have a mango
and banana bread
and tea;
somehow it still feels
like a celebration.
Brunch with My Cousin
Across the table,
over her coffee cup,
she raises her brow,
asks me,
“He’s not
all black,
is he?”
And when I say,
yes, my boyfriend
is pretty black,
on both sides
like Mos Def,
like the South side,
like the White Sox,
like Hyde Park
black,
she offers me
her hand
in comfort,
assures me,
“But your kids
would be olive.”
It takes all
of the might
in the muscle
of my tongue
to not make it jump
out at her,
serpentine
and sure--
but
at the same time,
I pity her
to be so afraid
of the thing
that makes her,
that melanin
that matches
her drink,
the brown
we both share.
She doesn’t even know
she hates
herself;
she doesn’t know
how brown and black folks
can love their skin,
and that’s one thing
my black boyfriend
and our black
and brown kids
will have
that she
and hers
will never.
over her coffee cup,
she raises her brow,
asks me,
“He’s not
all black,
is he?”
And when I say,
yes, my boyfriend
is pretty black,
on both sides
like Mos Def,
like the South side,
like the White Sox,
like Hyde Park
black,
she offers me
her hand
in comfort,
assures me,
“But your kids
would be olive.”
It takes all
of the might
in the muscle
of my tongue
to not make it jump
out at her,
serpentine
and sure--
but
at the same time,
I pity her
to be so afraid
of the thing
that makes her,
that melanin
that matches
her drink,
the brown
we both share.
She doesn’t even know
she hates
herself;
she doesn’t know
how brown and black folks
can love their skin,
and that’s one thing
my black boyfriend
and our black
and brown kids
will have
that she
and hers
will never.
Briana Naseer is a Pakistani-American poet living in Chicago, Illinois. She is originally from Lakeland, Florida, and graduated with a bachelor’s degree in psychology from the University of South Florida. She is currently pursuing a graduate degree in school psychology. She has a cat named Boo.
Anna Martin is a digital/traditional artist, writer and photographer based out of Saint Augustine, Florida. She is an avid explorer and much of her artwork is inspired by her travels and life experiences, and she strives to capture emotions and inspire others with her work. Her work has been previously exhibited in various galleries and museums, such as the Rosenberg Gallery and the Baltimore Museum of Art, and has also been published in various art magazines such as Grub Street and Plenilune Magazine. Anna is a freelance artist, and is always looking for new work and collaborative projects. Anna also frequently works under the pseudonym Vacantia, and more of her art can be found at her online gallery: http://www.vacantia.org.
