Monsoon
Soneta 1
I write to you in this language
I do not own. But have made my own.
This language that sits in the nether of my tongue,
Transits between the world and me. This anglophone.
This microphone that straitens the range of my thoughts,
Phrases my weighty words in foreign knots.
Soneta 2
I have the pen and I have the breath,
So I write to bear witness unto the death,
Inscribe the name of the mother buried in the rubble,
Her daughter bereaved and troubled by the struggle,
To feed a brother that suckles, comfort their father:
That these in vain would not have suffered, forgotten, forever.
Soneta 3
Don’t wake them up, the children are sleeping
Covered in debris, from the bombing of the camp;
The children are sleeping, bombed to sleep while they’re playing,
“Pass me the ball! I’m Deschamps, I’m the champ!”
The children are sleeping, and cannot be woken.
Cold bodies — lying in the ruins. Broken.
Soneta 4
My child, talk to me, speak to me,—please,
I’m begging you, don’t leave me in grief,
Without your peace, open your eyes and sneeze,
Come back to me, play with me, give me relief,
Like cool in June that breaks the heat, don’t depart!
The bomb is done, but you are gone, my sweetheart.
Soneta 5
My husband and my brother went to the market
At eight in the morning, looking for anything to buy:
Flour, pasta, diaper, tampon, water, sugar, charger,
Anything, anything to keep from dying by a rocket.
It’s now two in the afternoon; where did they die?
Children are hungry, Teta is waiting. Come home, Imad, Yasser!
Soneta 6
We’ve been hiding in the basement for days
And it’s time to go up — kids are getting sick.
We’ve had nothing to give them and are quite malaise.
The roads are littered with sand, sewage, and bodies; Thick
With the smell of rotting flesh and burning buildings.
Made it across the border … but left many in bombings.
Soneta 7
We cannot fly, so they fly over us
And bombard us. Trapped like sardines in a can.
They drop bombs on us, like a salesman his leaflets.
Homes are shattered, bones are battered, souls are furious;
Can’t look up to the sky, to spare our lifespan,
So we stare down at our graves, chalk our silhouettes.
Soneta 8
It’s a march of sorrows, for we must leave tomorrow
Follow the scent of water, to dig a burrow
Within the desert, like a lizard, in Sinai.
The borders are shut, shelters are bombed,—like a fly,
Swat us with drones, to kick us out our homes,
Leave this land of ours, to die like worms.
Soneta 9
They told us to move south or die fast
(Be buried beneath the rooms of our own homes),
So with food in our mouths, babies on our backs,
We marched south, with all we owned, dragged our bones;
Now, we are here, packed like grain,—then, it rains,
BOOM! BOOM!! BOOM!!! The ground receives our brains.
Soneta 10
He has to come, she can’t delay, grabs her shawl
But Ahmed is breeched, cannot be switched, sees some blood.
The roads are closed, blown out by drones, she’s all
Alone, so she starts to scream, prays hard to God.
With one last breath, she screams out aloud —
Boy lands on feet. Serenades his mom … Mama, I’m proud!
