The Rain Trusted My Plan
How to find anyone to adopt me.
Montreal is my temporary home,
Baghdad tainted me with shame.
When I said I was thirsty,
they poured me alcohol to increase my anxiety.
But I’d rather die intoxicated.
Nobody talks to me like the old days.
Being lonely is expensive, but funny
because the war in my mind is back again.
They crushed me, drank all my teardrops,
and laughed when they read
about the thick cord I had on my neck.
or thick enough to stop me from smiling.
The trouble is the rain trusted my plan
until I saw my grandpa and started talking.
“Cheer up, grandson! I’m very proud of you,”
he said as he wiped my tears away.
I woke up and realized—I’m still in aches.
The Kiss
Between the birth of daylight
and the death of the nightlight
lies a long road away from us.
A band might play, unaware,
but when I see you, I become a poem—
one a poet wrote to prove his existence.
The lake reads the moon and stars,
while I hear your voice, and my eyes sob,
wishing you knew how magical the kiss was.
If only I could exhale the years of sorrow I’ve inhaled.
Mindlessly, I drank and ran toward the cords of suicide,
ignoring those who wished me well and cut me raw.
I knocked on the doors of sobriety and kindness.
I met a widow holding her lover’s coffin,
reading a love poem, as my orphaned heart
sipped more liquor than before.
Can someone teach me how to love myself
before I hang my spirit on another’s soul,
before she dreams of me and longs for the kiss—
soft, sweet, beneath the drops of my blood?
Pour Your Sorrows into My Poems
I have learned so much from a woman like you.
I learned that true love arrives silently,
introducing me to your heart like in the old days,
when you ran from the rain to kiss my shyness.
I learned how to fly across the blue skies in your eyes.
I learned how to carve my poems onto your sweet tongue.
I learned how to hear your barefoot words through your ears.
I learned how one season rises while another drowns like autumn.
When I see the gentle wind at five in the morning
blowing through your hair,
I realize how privileged I am to be alive
to prove my existence beside you.
When I feel your warm hands holding mine,
in and out of different places,
I know I am blessed,
and I want to dance with you—
with fearless hearts and tearless eyes.
I hope you have never measured your sorrows against my sadness.
If you can change me
make me a better person, a happier lover
then pour your sorrows into my poems,
and I will color them with light,
turning each drop of your tears
into something whole again.
My Bio
Ahmad Al-Khatat is an Iraqi Canadian
published poet and writer. His poem {Graduation Party} was nominated for a
Pushcart Prize in 2024 by Mad Swirl. In addition to his Pushcart Price 2020 nomination,
he received a nomination for Best of the Net 2019. His poetry has been
translated into other languages and his work has been published in print and
online magazines abroad. He resides in Montreal, Canada, now with his spouse.
