This week, for our ‘architecture of food’ issue, published in collaboration with chlorophyll magazine, we have an evocative and visceral poem on the ritual, sacrifice, and performance of domestic labour.
ON YOUR HEART / على قلبك
by Hena Mustafa and Nasma Kublawi
like sandpaper on my palm, she slurps water out of cupped hands–
my offering to her before she’s offered to mine.
for mercy, for dignity, and for sanctuary, my back turns to her.
i tease the edge of the blade with my finger,
testing its sharpness, testing your will.
it’s your turn now. hesitation has no place in this process.
did your mother ever teach you how to forage a lamb? did she ever preach
that if you’re okay to chew on her belly, you must be prepared to sever her vein?
now, give her a kiss and repeat after me:
in the name of God, God is greatest,
in the name of all that is delicate, of a blushing bride, and of your clutched pearls,
one swift stroke and a steady arm swords through.
her jugular splits like a pea, her carotid arteries
hemorrhage, and her trachea takes its last heavy breath.
seven seconds only, and her consciousness melts.
three more minutes, and her body is barren.
the hunt and the gather both fall on our plate:
i tie apron strings around your waist, you roll up my sleeves, and
together we smirk at the winnings sprawled on our kitchen marble,
tenderise her flesh in laban and vinegar, let them shelter together in a ziplock bag.
carcass naps in a cool box to be fired only moments before the guests take seats.
we move on to the remainder: herbs to pluck, wicks to trim, aromatics to bloom–
a clean knife dismantles an onion and your tears spill: a moment to grieve,
a scant pause to honor, and we shift our mourning to motion and to bounty.
i finger out the zucchini’s insides, replace them with flesh and root,
submerge them in a broth of bone and bathwater,
stain my wood with sumac and blistered berry,
knuckle the yeast until it springs to genesis,
let pomegranate molasses trickle down the neck of its own bottle,
stick my finger in your pursed lip and ask if it needs more acid,
sing my feminine’s lessons in your ear,
measured only by zeal and gut.
we compose the table, and a pang reminds me of my mama’s warns:
we must architect for abundance, overflow for ease, and let our sacrifice remain unseen.
so i portion out pulverized walnut and pasted red pepper,
another bowl of pulsed lentils, another heaping of crimson,
then i catch a crust of red jabbed beneath my fingernail.
i pick at it, methodical, like a slinging prayer bead, and i let soap censor the kill.
i coat my lashes with ink of peppercorn,
adorn my body with petaled linen, fresh and unsullied,
ready to feast with friends, foes, and foreigns,
welcome the applause, light the match, ladle the celebration,
let their jolly fill our lungs, feel breaths of garlic,
breaths of praise, breaths of one thousand vitalities,
let them suck on the fruit of our invisible labor,
nourish from its sticky, spit the pit into a silver dish.
let the laughs of cigarette smoke ripple the room, let our people gnaw
at the marrow of our efforts, let them tongue its flavor from the ash.
i dip a piece of bread in honeyed blood and earthed oil,
we let the ram, the cheer, and the flattery heal our mortality.
savory swaps for sweet, crumbs brush off laps,
mistica chills the throat, and qahwa seals the eve in warmth.
صحتين. to your health. to your humble, to your refuge.
to her glory, to her return, to our seas.
HENA MUSTAFA (she/her) is a first-generation Palestinian-American lesbian poet and filmmaker. She uses words to create the homeland she craves. Her artistic medium is an attempt to visualize revolution. As the co-founder and brand director of BOYFRIEND co-op, a queer cafe/bar in Brooklyn, Hena fosters a hub for artistic connections and radical organizing within the SWANA community. She has published work in the House Anthology of Queer Poets of Color, and she has headlined performances at Banat El Hara and Kan Yama Kan. Hena’s writing is sensual, textured, and raw.
NASMA KUBLAWI (she/her) is a Palestinian writer and producer. Her poetry has been published in Chicago Quarterly Review, Calliope Art & Literary Magazine, among other platforms, and her short films, MAMA’S FATTEH and ORANGE BLOSSOM, have screened in festivals internationally. She also holds a Master of Social Work from the University of Southern California and practices psychotherapy full-time in New York. Nasma hopes to elevate & illuminate the Arab diaspora through advocacy, the written word, and the moving image. Nasma’s writing is intuitive, rhythmic, and sensory.
Hena and Nasma have been creative collaborators since 2024. Together, their craft and voice explore the ancestral femininity that binds them to their shared homeland. They have performed their works across leftist and Arab spaces in Brooklyn, NY, and are currently developing their chapbook, set for publication in 2027.