Hate My Love Poem by Nassy Fesharaki

I hate my love

Radio, this strangest product of, the mankind
For me, always, asking my mother as a child:
“Where is this sound from? ”

Has done its work, until now, many times
From the answering time, all around:
“They are some dogs in the box.”

The answer, its memory, and my curiosity
Have remained intact, alive, and immortal.
Dog talking like us from inside some box!

How can I ever forget?

Radio worked again in this humid, stinky time
The man-tongue’s speaking dogs woke me up
From inside their box.

Somalian, Chechen, Bosnian…
They spoke; refugees on the run …
On water, sailing and…
In Canada…and Finland, Denmark.

I hate my love
The Radio
These talking dogs in the box
They know more about my mother than
She knew about them and their box
Even about me in her absence; long gone.

But on mothers’ day
My dearest mother, ever
I know of a child, he is eight.
He was squeezed inside a suitcase
Another refugee, a victim; North African.
If crossed, he would be safe in Europe, in Spain.