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 Ata...