Three Poems: Ahmad Al-Khatat

by Ahmad Al-Khatat

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Between The Pages 
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Between the library shelves, 
you are my fictional character. 
Between the covers and pages, 
you are my favorite author, my treasured poem. 
Between memories and study sessions, 
you are my unforgettable moment. 
12/17/2024
Bleeding Heart Poet Copyright

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​The Silence Beneath an Immigrant's Tears
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When an immigrant cries, 
when he is happy but not sad, 
when he is miserable but not depressed, 
when he waters his eyes, 
and not the dead roses in the vase. 
When an immigrant cries, 
when he learns that nothing is the same, 
when he listens to music that makes him dance, 
when he realizes he must wake up alone 
and sleep late by himself. 
When an immigrant cries, 
when his unshaven beard turns white, 
when his long hair grows grey, 
when he forgets his father’s birthday 
and his mother’s funeral, 
when he drinks with empty pockets, 
lost after gambling it all away. 
When an immigrant cries, 
when he waits for the woman 
who once dreamed of building a family, 
when the baby’s cries next door wake him, 
and he remembers his own loneliness, 
when he pulls the trigger 
to silence his endless path to exile. 
When an immigrant cries, 
when he stares in the mirror 
and no longer recognizes himself, 
when he speaks of his voiceless demands 
while the world walks above his tomb, 
when he asks for help from anyone— 
but death answers, 
gently convincing him to pass 
without a sound. 
12/16/2024
Bleeding Heart Poet Copyright
 

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​Dance Barefoot Against the World’s Cruelty

Nadia forty-six years old, a widow stripper, who sat on my lap like it was the most natural thing in the world. I was already drunk, the kind of drunk that dulls everything except the faint glow of fleeting connection. I remembered being in my early twenties, though that seemed like a dream now. She looked sad, her eyes heavy with confusion, and without a word, she pulled me into the VIP room.

There, in the dim light, she undressed herself, her tears falling silently as though afraid to break the moment. Barefoot, I stepped closer to her and asked, softly, “Will you dance with me?” She paused, then smiled through her tears and wiped them away. We danced, slowly, ignoring time and the knocks of other strippers, their voices muffled by the door.

Her scent was intoxicating—lust and sorrow mixed into something I couldn’t name. It made me numb and drunk all over again. We kissed, almost accidentally, but it deepened. I bit her lip without meaning to, and she pulled back, blood staining her smile. “Stop,” she whispered gently. I apologized, frantic, but she wiped the blood and kissed me again, softer this time.

Then, as if nothing had happened, she dressed, took my hand, and led me to the back. I realized I was still barefoot; my shoes had vanished somewhere along the way. She left me in a quiet corner, alone with my thoughts and a cold beer. I drank, the bitterness settling something restless inside me, until I fell asleep sitting upright.

Around three in the morning, she woke me. Her voice was soft but certain: “Come to my place.” Without hesitation, I followed her, leaving behind the noise and the haze of the club. Her apartment was just ten minutes away, modest but warm, with leather furniture and a white carpet that felt out of place but smelled faintly of lavender.

“Go to sleep on the bed,” she said, her eyes half-closed. I obeyed, collapsing onto the pillow without a second thought. She draped a blanket over me before retreating to the couch. I drifted into a dream—a subway train gliding through four peaceful seasons, endless and serene.

When I woke, sunlight was creeping through the curtains, and on her dresser, I saw it: a vase. My childhood vase. The one that had been untouched for years. My heart clenched. When she came in, smiling softly, I asked, “Where did you get this?”

She told me her late husband had traded for it—a barter of shaving blades with an orphan in Baghdad. My breath caught. That orphan had been my father, a man with wooden legs, a man who had lived and died with the weight of war crushing his spirit.

The vase, once a treasure, now felt like a burden, a relic of all that I could never escape. Tears came without warning. She touched my shoulder, her voice gentle: “Why are you crying?”

I couldn’t hold back. “I don’t drink for anyone. I drink for myself—to forget the suffering, the killings, the endless weight of war. Sometimes I wonder if my brother could carry me to another planet, one where I wouldn’t have to think about my sobriety, or anything else.”
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The words hung in the air, heavy and raw. She didn’t say anything, and for once, silence felt like comfort. It was a moment that wouldn’t last, but in that fleeting stillness, I felt less alone.
 

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Bio:
Ahmad Al-Khatat is an Iraqi Canadian published poet and writer. In addition to his Pushcart Prize 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.

​You can find his most recent book of poetry The Finest Cigarette on Amazon. Check out this link for more of his work.

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