pomegranate,

smear

cut,

glide from

ashes of temples

in my land,

where women carry houses

on their backs,

and this blood stain

looks a

armor

on my heart.

scriptures we

recite

over dinner to

life, and keep living

because surviving is

all that

is necessary for us

to occupy

the space that was

taken from my

mother's hands

and her mothers

home.

and my eyes

too terrified

to

fight my father.

but loud enough

these marks of bruises

hold tight

to my identity. 

and in silence I've held

peace in captivity 

around me and in my arms,

a thought of security.

and what i was is

where i stood,
and what i am is
all to love.
and what i am is
all i love.