Gate poems by Deema Shehabi!

Gate of Freedom by Deema K. Shehabi Lovers of asparagus, alive  as hummingbirds, place their nostrils over a low cloud, wet of air. It's the year of green hills in California that early spring; the evening is blue-split between the first snow on the mountain top, and a computer screen, where news of a man whose body is eating itself, scythes the long-stemmed breaths in the room. "Do not weep if my heart fails," he writes. "I am your son." Gate of Love Son I have. Your hands bulge with pear tree blossoms. You are bellow and sweat, hunger and bread. I part the fog to find you through a grimy crowd of kids. Before you give in to the affection that soils you in public, I'll promise you a truce. Gate of the Sun Bristling down the chemical-  scraped hall uttering  assalamu alaikums to the young  patients from the UAE, their heads sagging    to the side, their bodies a shrine  to tumors, husks of overgrown cells,  the chemo fountain. One boy  stares through a sieve  of darkness, hewn around dark-gray clouds. Gate of Peace "I have so many sons withering,"  I whisper to the Chinese elm, as news  of the man whose body is eating itself,  disputes with the bresola on crisp baguette  that I'm eating in a garden among the flung-out  blue jays and limping Daddy long legs.  No hymns left;  only a small neck  the sun gnarls through.