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.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem