for the children of mo(u)rning
whose ancestors were caught in daybreak’s undertow.
for the sunrise we still praised into being,
for the hashweh brewing in a kitchen
that’s forgotten my scent.
for my auntie, at 80, relearning the gravity of her frail limbs
with JLo, blaring in the background.
for my grandfather & the way he prays
in broken English.
for the bits of arabic that wither on my tongue
like God does sometimes.
for insha allah, translated “if god is willing,”
and the way even our maybe’s are holy
for the way we have to pull yes, translated n a’em,
out of the back of our throats like
trees that refused uprooting,
for the way resistance is embedded into every corner of this
language i was taught to forget.
for jawlines clenched silent
under the gravity of a thousand corpses.
for the history books
& their peculiar amnesia for corpses.
for the forgotten martyrs
& the negatives of their crucifixes still hanging from my neck
for the holy scriptures, the joy they bring,
& the aftermath of their mistranslations.
for the Gnostic gospel that paints Jesus,
a serial killing murderous child.
this won’t be another
poem about how genocide
is a small, furious child.
this won’t be a poem about
religion making a sideeffect
of our children.
i can find joy
in the midst of this.
i can find joy
in the midst of all this
Cover photo artist credit: Loujain Bager, a student working in pressuring a degree in art history and art and is passionate about poetry.