[32] Out of Kobanî, Carl Boon


In this place I’m called Defne
and the flag is red
and the music is different
and Grandmother says
not to call her Dapîr anymore.

Father rests in a garden of rock
and Mother goes
with men on a boat.
When she calls Grandmother’s phone
the smell of zolobia

which is the smell of her hair
gathers in a corner
I can’t reach. When I dream
of her, her hands are circles
without fingers and I shake

and shake but they assure me
the bombs are gone because
I carry seven coloring books
for the seven hills
of home and if I never speak again

those hills will become
my brothers’ faces: dark mouths
and darker eyes to speak for me.
I learn Turkish words
but cannot sing them and

if I could I’d pray, the mosque
called Merve might listen
and open its blue doors
and call me beautiful
and feed me shfta

and hold me by the name
I was born against,
that everybody has forgotten.
The war that brought us here
will not return us home.

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