For Mohammed Nidal Hisham Atallah, Age 0

 

I repeat myself, Mohammed, but there is

In repetition pulse of encounter– language

Shored between borderlines of meaning,

Dehiscing, almost, repulsed at notions of

Fixedness. Syllabary of caul– to speak

Into it is to emerge from it, anew. How many

Births in you Mohammed? How many trailing

Narratives ribboning time, riverine histories

Carved of rock & rubble? Your midwives 

Percussive blow & encroaching eruption. 

Your attendants soot & black ash, rifle

Report & mother’s wailing. You were born

On a cemetery, headstones rubble of blasted

Buildings, concrete & rebar, shattered wood,

Glass like silver light off tremored water. 

The dirt beneath century-deep, yet unsettled. 

This is your history now– hiding the voluminous

Dead under pavement & parking lot—

Mohammed, we emerge from ourselves 

Under the quick of our speaking. Our rooting

Chutes & tunnels through the fragmented

Syllables of names we’ve buried– Mohammed

Nidal Hisham Atallah– before it finds

The air. I sing your name this morning– 

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