Two Poems

by Hazem Fahmy

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Connecticut Spring

The sun is a reminder of how badly Connecticut’s fucked me up.
Back home, we don’t smile when Cairo is bathed in light.
Back home, I pray for rain.
Connecticut’s taught me to hate being wet.
Every time the sky sheds its skin, it feels
like I’m expected to clean up the mess.
America can be harder to swim through than Egypt because it’s better at hiding its mess.
Arabic is not as politically correct as English.
It’s gendered and religious and doesn’t distinguish between dwarves and elves.
But it’s more straightforward,
isn’t as afraid of telling me when I’m not free.
Won’t say I’m welcome here then snow on me.


Before the Next Reel Drops

The Wood Man churned out a film

          once a year

for the better part of my father’s life.

          like,

did you know, neurosis bombs drop

          like agent orange

and orangutans tamper with
the patriarchy.

Calm me down with some Xanax
and conformity.

Mimicry mimes open arms with split legs
and a warm wet

          vertical kiss.

Spread saliva on me
and lavish this body with kosher bacon fat.

At last we are blessed
with Emma Stone on a college bench
you and I can sit on
with $60,000 a year.


Hazem Fahmy was born in Houston, TX and was raised in his parents’ native Cairo, Egypt. He left at fifteen for the African Leadership Academy in Johannesburg, South Africa and after graduating commenced his undergraduate studies at Wesleyan University in Middletown, CT. He aspires to be a poet and filmmaker.

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