Surah al-Qiyamah:
My Father Talks to God When
Syria Occupies Tripoli, 1976
Ruth Awad
We are in the streets already, drawing lines in the dirt,
pulling gunfire into our breath. Does man think
You will not assemble his bones
when clouds climb and split like timber and bombs swarm
in smoke-stained light?
Our bodies’ rungs and limbs are rail yard tracks –
64
immovable, tied to the land.
When men hunt each other, they call You different names,
sounds that sift into rock beds.
Listen: it’s calling You, this river.
We drown in the streets beneath a joined moon and sun
and still the earth shakes us from its hide.
Where can I escape? My arms covered in ash. The harbors moored with flame.
I love this fleeting world even
as I run thro ugh the streets, the heat slung on my back,
shots mottling the window where I bought bread,
and the voices follow – scratch of gravel, barking alleys and
smolder – I’m fluent in a new language when I’m this close
to the shopkeeper’s body, his mouth full of red petals
that drip on the counter like a prophecy.
It ends like this: our time weighed like grain on a scale,
Your hands too full of lives like mine.