by Fawziyya Abu Khalid
Mother,
You
did not leave me an inheritance of necklaces for a wedding
but
a neck that towers above the guillotine
Not
an embroidered veil for my face
but
the eyes of a falcon that glitter like the daggers in the belts of our men.
Not
a piece of land large enough to plant a single date palm
but
the primal fruit of The Fertile Crescent:
My
Womb.
You
let me sleep with all the children of our neighborhood
that
my agony may give birth to new rebels
In
the bundle of your will
I
thought I could find a seed from The Garden of Eden that I may plant in my heart
forsaken by the seasons
Instead
You
left me with a sheathless sword the name of an obscure child carved on its blade
Every
pore in me every crack opened up:
A
sheath.
I
plunged the sword into my heart but the wall could not contain it
I
thrust it into my lungs but the window could not box it
I
dipped it into my waist but the house was too small for it
It
lengthened into the streets defoliating the decorations of official holidays
Tilling
asphalt
Announcing
the season of
The
Coming Feast.
Mother,
Today,
they came to confiscate the inheritance you left me.
They
could not decipher the children's fingerprints
They
could not walk the road that stretches between the arteries of my heart and the
cord that feeds the babe in every mother's womb.
They
seized the children of the neighborhood for interrogation
They
could not convict the innocence in their eyes.
They
searched, my pockets took off my clothes peeled my skin
But
they failed to reach the glistening silk that nestles the twin doves in my
breast.