A broken doorknob - A refugee's monologue

• the umbilical cord is cut off
• mama's gaze passes through the second/minute/hour hand
• flows into the first sound of cry
• on the ploughland between Tigris and Euphrates
• the door opens a crack for me; flapping its wings, dawn
• enters the eyes

• are closed, however.
• night flees at the first debris
• the color of sumac turns into the bell of death ever since
• they load the textbooks into guns/ ink burnt to dust
• I believe/no more/believe in—
• The umbilical cord is cut off.

• once a year, the tenth year
• I am shut outside of the door
• once a year, the tenth year
• the navy costume intrudes on my dream, I grab the collar,
• “Prove yourself” it commands, I’m a self without a past.
• knees on the floor, another layer of callus grows over the door frame

• ten years from now/forever/back to childhood
• 711’s hotdogs are floating on Hudson river/today’s lunch
• got cold, my stomach is calling sumac spiced chickpea
• Mama, I’m home
• no sound inside the house
• mama –

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• Ten years, I’ve not been able to turn the doorknob again
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