Keep My Poems
My father taught me how to write:
على قد لحافك، مد رجليك.
Extend your legs as far as your blanket.
When I find parts of my poems
exposed,
I amputate them.
I keep them tucked in
light or night,
away from those hunting
for lines
that don’t fit their blankets
not realizing poetry lies
in a poet’s satisfaction with their blanket.
In my pursuit of tender lines,
I’ve become a butcher,
committing crimes against myself
for the sake of beauty.
Copyright © 2026 by Yahya Ashour. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on May 20, 2026, by the Academy of American Poets.
“This poem is inspired by a proverb my father used to always say to me. He said it about everything except poetry. That’s maybe why I think it’s most useful in poetry. While he was not a poet; he was poetry.”
—Yahya Ashour
Yahya Ashour
Yahya Ashour is a Gazan poet. A visiting assistant professor at Pitzer College, he lives in Claremont, California, on Tongva land.