these are the unmakings of me

these are the unmakings of me
i pile my dead aside & start anew—

grief is a chest swelling
a pain in the lower abdomen
a gathering storm
a hollow feeling in the first hour of morning.
—lord knows i’ve been mourning for far too long

there is so much pain i cannot name—
there is love with no abode, makidada
and memories with no hope of return.

i have grieved a nation more times in a lifetime than i can recount
i cannot name a time when i was not tired
i cannot name a loved one who is not mourning: son, daughter, nation, dream.

these are the unmakings of me
once more,
i pile all my dead aside & start anew—

this time, the path takes me to him
the man with eyes like the sun
i tell him,
don’t tempt me with those eyes
you know i love like the poets
don’t set me aflame, don’t make me mourn another body
i swear i cannot bear it.

to all the souls i could not love,
do not blame me for my chaos for i am my mother’s daughter

if not for her eyes, i inherited her spirit
an ageless restlessness deep within the soul
passed down through generations of azzas, daughters
inherited from mothers shrouded in white

from forefathers who wore their burial cloths on their heads
mortal travelers in constant anticipation of death—an embrace between this world & the next.

i bear witness.

to all those that have lived & passed through me.

i bear witness to mama’s ablution in the hours of dawn—
dim light of morning twilight
chirping birds, rustling leaves & the first breeze of morning,
damp sandy scent hailing the seasonal rain
incense smoke & cool AC air,
mama’s damp, golden skin & a faded green prayer toub wrapping her whole.

i bear witness

to baba’s strong hands wrapped in wooden prayer beads
his whispers of recitation,
splintered hands, earthly & steady, with only a silver ring adorning them
trembling, solemn features & eyes that hold the ancient—haunting. boundless. regal.

i bear witness,

to the azan of fajr, baba’s bedside lamp, recitation into the night, lulling me back to sleep.

where is the lamp of my childhood—the lamp of my dreams?
how can i sleep without my lullaby?

ya allah, where has my home gone?

i bear witness

to sleepless transits in faraway lands
a waiting room between worlds,

i bear witness to hiding in back rooms & bathrooms of funerals with itqan

she wipes the seeding sweat off my skin, lines my eyes, & fixes a scarf on my shoulders— the one baba gifted me on my birthday, signed hara ding ding. i remove the big decorative earrings i forgot to take off upon arrival—they hint of a colorful alternate life i forged for myself worlds away.

we gossip about aunties & misplaced tissue boxes,
interrupted by the occasional laments, we laugh
we talk for hours.

this is a tale older than time;
mourning daughters return home
beautiful, glassy eyed & shrouded in black
—lord knows, I’ve been mourning for far too long.

these are the unmakings of me,

once more,
i pile my dead aside & start anew.

grief glares her teeth at me, bright & beautiful
supple skinned, glowing, & sorrowful

who have you come to take now?