Don't whistle at night

because it'll bring in shayateen. 

Beware, black coffee and cigarette 

smoke, a country of evil eyes and spells snuck 

into offers. The only time I didn’t listen, beautiful prickly 

pear too good to turn down, I had restless 

nightmares in an August of relentless heat. 

It’s an Algerian belief,

Mama tells me. You can't

confess your nightmares or else

they'll follow you into waking day. 

What you do instead: whisper 

them into running water,

let it carry the dream along. 

I want to dream that the raspberries

turn my skin pink along

with them. That the dead flowers

by my window blow into my

face as I try to fall asleep, 

and honeysuckle trails behind

in an act of the world’s forgiveness. 

There’s an Algerian superstition, 

Mama says. You can’t give anything

knotted because it’s seen as a bringer 

of bad fortune. When I find an uneven 

strand, a collection of tangles, 

I use the scissors I cut your hair 

with to snip them right off. 

I have this recurring dream:

every time, a new city, people flying.

The betrayed looks at the betrayer

and says, “I will forgive you, because

I still love you.” The betrayer looks

right in their eyes, says, “It doesn't

matter” and betrays anyway. I never 

tell anyone, not even the faucet.