May 16, 2021My Great-Grandmother Carved Her Name On This Door
A boy lost his father. This is no lost tooth.
That burning mosque is not a burning building
but a set of blistering arms. I’m sick of myself. If
I must fail, then let it be at complicity. This time
I can’t look at my reflection without seeing what I am:
a torch. Look at me: I’m not here. I’m at the foot
of the house where the soldiers spit
at my father. I put a cigarette to my skin
and I rupture: You are not
taking me mute. I’ve got a tongue to prove what
I already know, that silence is just noise
rubbing its hands together. What is there to be
silent about? Everything has already been said
except the way I have to say it: this land is my
body this land is my body this land is my
body. My great-grandmother carved her name
in this door. I’m not
leaving. My people in the streets are dying
like people. Two guns at my throat
like a new set of eyes.
from Poets Respond