Two Poems: I Dream in the Language of Funerals, Scream

I.

In the language of a city
inseminated with fallen teeth and
broken bones.

I dream in the language of dead.

I dream:
my mother’s poems resemble
the dark blotch on my left temple.
a green horse
kneels beside the body of
a dead boy.
a rat nips at my only letter
addressed to the wings of Gabriel.

An idyllic dream falls in the chasms
of a curfewed night,
it is slit open by razor blades
under the derisive eyes of drunk
soldiers.

I dream:
a woman losses her wedding ring
in the proximity of huddled army vehicles.
an abandoned pair of shoes in
a nameless cemetery
collecting the rains of spring.

II.

Scream, Scream, Scream
In the dungeons where your
past has been stitched with
steel wires.

Your identity needs a new
address
scream in the void to
confirm your existence.

Scream:
around the maps
where massacres dance in
colorful costumes
where the snow of ashes
reiterates itself
and falls on the bald
heads of the prisoners.

My mother’s scream
sounds like a flower on
a martyr’s grave
she screams of blood on her
prostrated forehead.

When it snows
a letter,
addressed to the spring
is confiscated by the night soldiers
the syllables are skinned,
throttled and
nailed to the wall like a
map of the lost civilization.

Scream
till the spring
of all seasons hear you.

(These poems were published in the September 2020 print issue of Mountain Ink.)

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