Its Colors Will Not Turn Poem by Seif-Eldeine O

Syria/ Turkey border

The passports

are newly minted. Our family name

changed from Nashif

to Ali. My father worries

the border guard

can smell his Sunni blood

off him.

The bombs become fainter. My parents

have been silent for hours.

I take my thumb and press

it against each finger 1,2,3,4...

I count until I reach a thousand

and begin again.

The guard takes

the passports. To

another guard.

They look over their shoulder

at us.

Baba, mama, my baby

ukhtee,

me, at me.

I run my fingers through my sister's

hair.
I bow my head

to the guards.

These bloody boots

open the trunk.

They rifle through

the luggage, turn over

every sock,

every piece of clothing.

They throw the bread

onto the car's roof,

rip it open to check for weapons.

Their hands

pat down my mother's hips, my hips.

Their hands rip open my

one-year old's sister's diaper. She
is

crying, I am crying. The bombs feel

like they are getting closer.

I stick my tongue in the air to

taste them.

I feel the soldier's stench of goat

breathing down my sweater.

The sky is blue, the sky is blue,

I repeat to myself, over the bombs
that turn its color.

When they are done with my sister,

I kiss her toe.

This poem was originally published in Typehouse Literary Magazine.