|
by Dana Alsamsam Underground hospitals not enough beds mothers ululate their children’s names The next clip loads pixelated image from a cell phone By the time we parse it we’re in too deep to stop A rebel soldier slices a government soldier’s chest the torn uniform waving like a flag then the rebel pulls out the soldier’s heart that bloody core still pounding well Allahuakbar he says this is for Allah begs understanding from Allah steals the words of our prayers spills them on war soil Blood down his forearm he digs his teeth into the organ shakes his head a wolf a terrifying decadence hope already gone with this life & all the others But who is to say when the light went out There is no one there to count the dead The next clip loads I imagine if America had not called to my father I watch him wonder if he could be that rebel if he could take that heart follow an arranged hopelessness his family taken for captive his children’s bodies purpled tossed on the street I see him as he must see himself a new pain so close he becomes the dagger & the hand that guides it still here on this American couch vibrating with hate My father says I cannot see the other side daughter I cannot see past this Together we have opened a door that we cannot walk through  Dana Alsamsam is the author of a chapbook, (in)habit (tenderness lit, 2018), and her poems are published or forthcoming in Bone Bouquet, The Massachusetts Review, North American Review, Gigantic Sequins, Tinderbox Poetry, The Boiler Journal, Salamander, BOOTH, and others. Her work has been supported by a fellowship from Lambda Literary's Writers Retreat for Emerging LGBTQ Voices. |