Blank

From beneath the skin
to the brain,
my blood cells are fighting
to breathe me through
the tortured shadows of memory.

Sorry, I am mother, sorry,
for losing you if you give up on the life
that has been the one constant in mine.
Look at my fingers
that are covered in blood

and bitten by the snails that are nervously
swimming inside of my breasts.

I cover my broken skin
from the dry drafts,
and from beneath the tears that peel my cut heart
and from beneath the brain cells
I hear the enjoined memories
(that I wish I never had)
and the rocks that are crying
for the outbreak of the White Divs.¹

Sorry, I am mother, sorry,
for the childhood
that was stolen from me
by the displacements and the wars,
by the governments and their inhumane crimes.

Zero blood...sacred blood...blood
from beneath my nails…hair
that is rended in anguish…breasts
that are driven from...
one end to another
...the body that will be buried beneath...

Shut these thoughts, Sheema, shut…
shhhhhhhh…

Khaamush! ²

¹ Demons; from the The Book of Kings by the Persian poet Ferdowsi
² Persian for “Be quiet”