• countablyinfinite 14h

    we had doi maach
    and burped blissful ignorance,
    as the flies then roamed, mocking our pretence, all we knew was being young.
    families lose things all the time,
    so grandma just laughed away when grandfather died,
    I keep losing my pens and hair ties.
    my legs still ache, even more in autumn and fear,
    my belly is full of fishes, alive and dead, yet ma says I'm never having enough water.
    I had to be a little more dead to be a fit funnier, I like the food spicy but not the gastritis,
    ma hates spicy and her gastritis.
    my house is louder than my mind, it barely sleeps.
    when a window opens to a window one can only feel small and the rain makes no difference.
    an upset stomach is better than an upset heart, but a chronically upset stomach and heart both is how mother would die.
    the flies on the floor, oblivious and telling, the phone lights up; doi maach is ready.

  • countablyinfinite 5w

    and when some girls,
    some daughters smell like sex,
    they also smell like war.
    When the whole family prays,
    Shifa stays outside the room.
    The family has a meal anytime Shifa sings in her room,
    a dinner to drown out the voices of war,
    breaths and frowned upon smells.
    Shifa looks pretty as she bends over the sink,
    thinks little Amina.
    Shifa pukes and she cleans,
    she pukes and she sings,
    she pukes and she bleeds.
    Shifa looks pretty as she dresses her wounds,
    think unknown uncles at the house,
    With thousands of strange bees stinging into her,
    Shifa steps out,
    is less of a pretty and more her,
    with lost home and stinging belly,
    leaves for a home.

  • countablyinfinite 5w

    The mother,
    as a young girl went to wars
    then at night, went to her room to sleep,
    a room with remnants of wars, with their own sheets.
    The mother, now a married woman,
    goes to wars and never returns.
    Her tongue and nails smell of war;
    must be why her husband never comes along
    or takes her, she whispers years later.
    The grandma was a forgetful mother,
    she forgot to tell her daughters to be themselves, take as much space as galaxies,
    that they would always need love, that they can have so much love they become it, that once a mother; she cannot forget.
    No one taught and no one knew how to be a mother or how to stay or how to remember.
    The mother, now with kids as ordinary as wars,
    is trying to like them,
    while claiming she knows how to love,
    how to be a mother,
    how to stay.
    In her dreams, she is exhausted from so much running,
    she wakes up and by noon
    her daughter fights her as she teaches her to be a mother,
    some feet can't stop but they crave staying.
    The mother rinses wars off everywhere and becomes them.
    This house smells like poison,
    like rage of an angry man,
    the walls, the doors have become him.
    The window shows a closed window,
    on the other side are families, eating curries with hand, families eating together, families that don't want to kill each other in their prayers.
    A fixer mentality, the mother is always running,
    with knives, without heart.