HEMOGLOBIN

HUSSAIN AHMED

 
 

my sister crosses a river the size of a man’s heart
to learn count her fingers from one to thirty
my sister forgot the last time she saw her blood
Subhanallah! Iya cries
pacing the house, hands folded in knuckles
 
the lines of her palms are path of memories
of how she broke the news of her first child
it takes a full moon for a girl to become a flower
if she opens the louvers and let the rays washes her body.
 
the longer I stay in the house, the more I look like my father
the memories of him are fragments of a burnt atlas that fits nowhere
Iya says she needs aids, but the aids I know of
are viruses, though it may take long to eat up the red cells
 
I inherit a wristwatch made from a past that belongs to someone else,
it fits me perfectly; I’ll spend the night in the bathtub singing about home.

 

 
 

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