Khaled K.E.M. was born in Cairo, Egypt. He holds a Ph.D. in Microbiology and Immunology from the University of Western Ontario, Canada. He lives in New York. He teaches biology, microbiology and genetics. He writes poetry in English, French, and Arabic. His first Arabic poetry book, El Foraq, was published in Egypt. Some of his poems written in French and English have appeared in magazines in Egypt and Canada.
The oil, the water, and the unbearable hug.
Adam, Eve, and the malicious bug.
The sperm, the egg, and the permanent plug.
Aladdin, the lamp, and the fallen rug.
The suite, the gun, and the handsome thug.
All evidence is there.
"Your Honor...i never existed."
The jury orders to make me.
The honest wind delivers ashes to a tulip.
The somber tulip delivers nectar to a bee.
The exhausted bee delivers income to a family.
The rural family delivers convenience to a Jinni.
The talented Jinni delivers magic to a body.
The curved body delivers blood to a face.
The clotted face delivers seed to soil.
The torrid soil delivers milk to a tree.
The loose tree delivers shade to a spirit.
The aged spirit delivers secrets to a stranger.
The trusted stranger delivers a package to you.
Burned, I deliver you to the wind.
I throw out the frozen meat,
the expired ideas,
the rotten relationships and many leftovers.
I keep the green heart,
the fresh mind,
the juice of life —memories.
I wipe the sink, the stove, and the floor with my sleeves.
I dust the Chinese teacups I inherited from a garage sale.
I apologize to the silver spoons I never touched.
I separate the vinegar and the oil from their rusted set.
They have been standing side to side for years
but never cared for each other.
I bring down the cleaver from its rack
shining there in pride amongst relatives of sharp knives.
I put them to rest in the lower drawer of the cabinet,
no more shortcuts.
I fill my scratched mug with black coffee.
He lived it all with me,
the bad and good times.
I dim the light to its minimum.
My kitchen has a small table
and one chair in the corner.