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      February 15, 2015The Words Come, They Choke MeLeila Chatti

      for Deah, Yusor, and Razan

      Too many times I have written
      this poem: blood a dark ink,
      moon a bullet hole.
       
      My tongue flaps useless
      as a bird. The words
      come, they choke me.
       
      Somewhere, always, smoke.
      Somewhere, always, something
      burning, something snuffed.
       
      The sun set again,
      bled like a wound.
      I stood; nothing could
       
      move me. The world went on
      spinning tiredly, & like that
      I survived another day.
       
      I breathe & life
      keeps coming.
      It feels simple enough
       
      that I know to be suspicious.
      Tonight, dark as a flint chip, candles
      each a pinprick. I swallow
       
      a flame within me,
      shelter it as the sky
      dons her black veil.

      from Poets Respond

      Leila Chatti

      “This week, I woke up to the news that a few miles away, three Muslim students had been shot and killed ruthlessly—an execution. As a fellow North Carolina State University student and Arab-American Muslim, this tragedy resonated on a deeply personal level; always, horrors like these raise the quiet fear, “Could I be next?” That the question exists is an ugly thing. I have spent days trying to find the words to articulate this grief, grief at a pain that seems unending. I struggle to speak about it, but I feel I have to try. This is my attempt at that.”

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