Seven
by Yasmine Rukia
This work appears in Khabar Keslan Issue 2. PASSAGE
i.
we are the ISIS flag design
trapped
between
black and white
interpretations
of our reflection
ii.
in the milky white water of my perspiration
you can taste
the diasporic salt of my pores
seeping through broken drinking-glass
as you swirl around
sun and moon
drunk
iii.
the fireworks break the silence of dusk
and all I can imagine is shrapnel
and my rabbit
my white rabbit
caged under pine
with no branch to catch bullets
the sirens broke today
iv.
a dusty fez perched on mounted camel head
above blue eye that wards off evil
you grab the fez and scatter dust like farmers seed
you place the red dome a-top your head
and swear you can fly home
straight to heaven
v.
the women march in black
their cloaks catch wind
and wave like flags
like my grandmother
who waves from home
we cradled hands to heart
to gaping sky
and recite
stolen flag design
vi.
a record player scratches
plumes of sweet smoke
the sound calls to the birds,
asfour, asfour,
my hands have seven fingers
but they are enough to
hold you
home
white rabbit
vii.
you win the lottery of random selection
with your beard and fez
seven fingers clutching
blonde camel coat
and blue eye
sticky with perspiration
the milky way is brightest over Texas
we see the reflection of you
no branches to catch bullets
no flags to catch wind
no rabbits to take home
but a woman singing
asfour, asfour
between black battalions
of white guards
on your way to heaven
Yasmine Rukia is a no-normal radical thinking muslim who dabbles in short stories. An Arabesque-American trying to explain the unexplainable, sometimes, always.