Called It Morning Poem by Nassy Fesharaki

Called it morning

It is called: "The morning, "
I wonder: "Shall agree? "

They call it birth but I,
I wonder: "Can it be? "

Had to share adventure,
Forcefully, in tunnel!

I was pushed,
My body followed head,
Skin felt a long and dark tunnel.

Something kept dangling
On my puffed-up belly,
Digestion not working!

When stopped, I was out,
In unknown, sure, not womb!

I was shocked, mesmerised,
Different kind of life, cultural…

No water to move in
And no food, for eating,
Half dead and half alive
I, silent: "What is this? "

A devil or angel
Held me up by ankles
Was spanked with a palm.

Questions turned to cry!

Water left my ears
Air entered instead
Could hear the devils
Whispering, meaningless.

They cut a part of me
And gave me to woman.

Her eyes shined, surprised,
She kissed me, I heard sound
That was like my teammate,
Same heart that sang, throbbed.

Knew not where I was,
Was near and too far!

Now, many years later
I take time and inhale,
Then exhale with a sigh:
"Oh, my God! "

No, no, no
Not the God of mullahs
Not from Abraham
Not any that demands
Murdering and insults
For sake of one tribe…

I call God when am lost
In the peaks of mountains,
In the oceans, deserts,
And skies, the endlessness.

My God comes when I love.

My God comes when close
All the doors, go to bed
And she is in my arms
We flirt, ejaculate…

My God is in poems
Of people like Garry
When they write of the life
Of Natives with their Dogs…

I stop and observe
How poets write, play
With the dogs as porters
And end with First Nations
Being lost, scattered, unaware!