November 2025
By Amel Omer
I am a woman
living in a body
shadowed by a rare immune storm
and a mother
to a teenage son on the autism spectrum,
who needs me to carry his world
every morning
and every night,
rebuilding the rhythm of his days
step by fragile step.
I live in exile,
where longing never sleeps,
and bad news from my distant
homeland arrives like uninvited ghosts.
Yet still
I insist on lining my eyes with kohl,
on painting my lips
with the color of a moment
and in my handbag
I keep a proud bottle of perfume
as proof that
I still
choose
life.
And still
I honor elegance
and I embrace my beloved
even in the fiercest storms
I walk to the cafe each day
as though I were going
to meet the gentle hours of my life
and I write poetry before sleep
the way a soldier
swallows morphine
before battle
until a thousand poems
come to rest
in the drawer of my vanity.
For my ability
to steal fragments of joy
from the claws of existence
I believe
I deserve a quiet crown
reserved for those who never stopped loving
without conditions.
Amel Omer*