COVER
THREA ALMONTASER
I don’t mean when a sex scene plays
near a child and hands go over their eyes.
Nor a picnic protected by tent flaps from
a sudden spring shower. And I don’t mean
what you inspect before reading a book,
or the way you tuck your scarf over your hair.
What I mean is standing closely
with a distant relative I’ve never met before
at the UAE airport, her gloved hands squeezing
my face like a morning orange, breast pulpy
against mine as she covers my cheeks with kisses
that stick to me so that I wear them for hours,
breath a hot sigh of charred honey, her exposed face
stained lightly ginger from the turmeric.
near a child and hands go over their eyes.
Nor a picnic protected by tent flaps from
a sudden spring shower. And I don’t mean
what you inspect before reading a book,
or the way you tuck your scarf over your hair.
What I mean is standing closely
with a distant relative I’ve never met before
at the UAE airport, her gloved hands squeezing
my face like a morning orange, breast pulpy
against mine as she covers my cheeks with kisses
that stick to me so that I wear them for hours,
breath a hot sigh of charred honey, her exposed face
stained lightly ginger from the turmeric.
THREA ALMONTASER is a Yemeni-American born and raised in New York City. She is a MFA candidate in poetry at North Carolina State University. Her poetry won the 2016 NC State poetry contest, was a finalist for the James Hurst poetry prize, and is a winner of the 9th annual Nazim Hikmet poetry competition. Her work has appeared in Gravel Magazine, Day One Journal, Oakland Arts Review, Smokey Blue Literary and Arts Magazine, Atlantis Magazine, and elsewhere. She currently teaches English to immigrants and refugees in Raleigh. Besides writing, Threa enjoys traveling to places not easily found on a map.
