Burial Ground

I am found hidden, snug among the truffles                                                     Growing under the footsteps of Bedouins.

I am found staring down
At the Temple of Eshmun.

I am found sitting on the oil spills,
The rubble,
The rotting fruit.

Sometimes I have lived a thousand lives.

Sometimes I have never breathed
Outside of my mother’s suffocating belly.

I have lived my mother’s life,
My life,
And my daughter’s life.

I have heard about my mother
In her white dress,
Smile smeared red,
The corners frowning,
The bombs bouncing and bursting.

I have heard about the feet of soldiers
Soiled and kicking.

Women praying on cracked skin.

I have touched the television screen to feel the explosions.
To hear the earth screaming.
To see my reflection against a black screen.

I have held my father’s hand,
and shortly after,
My husband’s.

I have seen my daughter stretch in blood,
In pajama shorts.
In silk nightgowns.

I have seen my mother love me;
When she sold her wedding ring to feed me.
When she hit me after I refused to eat.
When she slept in my bed after I left her.

I have seen my daughter love me;
When she rests her head on my stomach.
When she kisses each of my fingers.
When she buries me.                                                                                              Among the truffles.

Rawan Sabra

Rawan Sabra fills her days with reading and baking. On good days she writes and erases, then eats a cupcake. On bad days she writes and keeps it, then eats three cupcakes. Her days are exciting, for example; on Tuesdays she likes to stare in angst at the typewriter she bought that is collecting dust in the corner. She prefers her laptop but thought the typewriter would give her a quirky edge. It didn’t.

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