The Poet's Daughter
"Huda falls for Salim, a renowned Palestinian poet whose words have haunted her for years—but their connection comes with an impossible complication."
The Poet's Daughter
Huda had memorized Salim Khoury's poems before she memorized multiplication tables. Her mother—his biggest fan—had raised her on his verses, his words the lullabies of her childhood. Now, at twenty-eight, she sat in the front row of his reading at Ramallah's cultural center, watching the man himself give voice to lines she knew by heart.
He was older than she'd imagined—sixty-two according to Wikipedia—with a shock of white hair and a voice like aged whiskey. When he finished, the audience erupted, but his eyes found hers across the applause.
"You were mouthing the words," he said afterward at the reception, materializing at her elbow. "I watched you."
"I grew up on your poetry. My mother is Palestinian—she raised me on 'Letters to a Homeland.'"
"Wallah?" Really? His smile transformed his weathered face. "And what did you think?"
"I think the woman you wrote about in 'September Olive Trees' was very lucky."
"She was my wife." A shadow crossed his features. "She died ten years ago."
"I know. I've read all your interviews." Huda flushed. "That sounds stalker-ish."
"It sounds flattering." He handed her a glass of wine. "Tell me, what does the daughter of a fan do when she's not attending poetry readings?"
She was a translator, it turned out—Arabic to English, working on Palestinian texts. Salim was delighted. They talked until the center closed, then continued at a nearby café, then at his apartment where he pulled out unpublished manuscripts and asked her opinion.
"These are incredible." Huda traced the Arabic script. "Why haven't you published them?"
"They're too personal. About wanting things I shouldn't want. Feeling things that don't suit a man my age."
"What things?"
Salim's eyes met hers. "I think you know."
The air between them thickened. Huda set down the manuscript with trembling hands.
"I should go."
"Should you?" He didn't move to stop her, but his voice pulled like gravity. "Or is 'should' just another cage we lock ourselves in?"
"You're twice my age."
"I'm aware." He reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "I've been aware since you looked up at me from the front row and I felt my heart remember it still beats."
"Salim—"
"Go if you need to." His hand dropped. "But know that the poems you'll find in that manuscript are for you. Written before we met, somehow knowing you'd come."
She read them that night in her hotel room, and wept. Every verse spoke to her soul—longing and fear and the desperate hope for connection. By morning, she'd made her decision.
Salim opened his door still in his robe, surprise flashing across his face.
"Habibi—"
She kissed him before he could finish. His arms came around her instantly, pulling her inside, pressing her against the door.
"We shouldn't," he gasped between kisses.
"I don't care about should." She tugged at his robe. "I care about this. About you. Write me a poem about it later."
His laugh was breathless, wonder-struck. "Ya Allah, what did I do to deserve you?"
"You wrote the truth. Now show me what it feels like."
They made love among his books and manuscripts, Salim treating her body like precious text—reading every line, savoring every curve. His age showed in patience, not limitation. He took his time learning her, adjusting to her reactions, building her pleasure with exquisite care.
"Tell me," he commanded, his mouth at her breast. "Tell me what you need."
"More—there—please—"
When he finally entered her, Huda cried out at the rightness of it. They moved together in ancient rhythm, his poetry come to life in the way their bodies spoke.
"Inti almulhimti," he groaned against her throat. You're my muse. "Inti el qasida." You're the poem.
She shattered in his arms, and he followed, and for a moment there was only breath and heartbeat and connection.
"Stay," Salim said afterward, his hand tracing verses on her bare skin. "Not just tonight. Stay in Ramallah. Translate my work officially. Build something with me."
"The world will talk."
"Let them. I've survived Israeli prisons and exile and my wife's death. I can survive gossip." He kissed her forehead. "I'm sixty-two. I don't have time to waste on other people's opinions."
"What about my mother? She'll faint when she finds out I'm sleeping with her favorite poet."
"Or she'll be jealous." His smile was mischievous. "We'll tell her together. With poetry. I'll write her an explanation so beautiful she can't argue."
Huda laughed despite herself. "That's your solution to everything, isn't it? Poetry?"
"It's gotten me this far." He pulled her closer. "So? Will you stay?"
She thought of the careful life she'd built—safe, predictable, empty. Then she looked at Salim, this impossible man who'd written her into existence years before they met.
"Na'am," she said. "But I want co-author credit on at least one collection."
"Deal."
Outside, Ramallah was waking. Inside, a new verse was beginning—written in touch and trust and the ancient language of unlikely love.