At the close of the 2014 Split This Rock Poetry Festival, Kenyan poet and activist Shailja Patel,
inspired by the Guantanamo
prisoners who scratched poems on a
styrofoam cup with pebbles, passed it from cage to cage, until it was discovered and smashed by their jailers,
did a necessary act. She wrote and read
the names of the many girls killed by U.S.
We all love our
babies.
 |
| Activist Poet Shailja Patel reading the names of the many girls killed by U.S. drones. |
Drone
By Solmaz Sharif
…Let this be the Body
through which the War has passed.
—Frank Bidart
through which the War has passed.
—Frank Bidart
somewhere I did not learn mow down or mop up •
somewhere I wouldn’t hear your father must come with me or I must fingerprint your
grandmother can you translate please • the FBI has my cousins’ computers •
my father says say whatever you want over the phone • my father says don’t let them scare you that’s what they want • my mother has a hard time believing
anything’s bugged • my father and I always talk like the world listens • my
father is still on the bus with contraband papers under his seat as uniforms
storm down the aisle • it was my job to put a cross on each home with dead for
clearing • it was my job to dig graves into the soccer field • I wrote red tracksuit •
I wrote Shahida, headless, found beside Saad Mosque • buried in the same grave as the above • I wrote unidentified fingers • found inside Oldsmobile car • I wrote their epitaphs in chalk •
from my son’s wedding mattress I know this mound’s his room • I dropped to a
knee and engaged the enemy • I emptied my clip then finished the job • I took
two steps in and threw a grenade • I took no more than two steps into a room
before firing • in Haditha we cleared homes Fallujah-style • my father was
reading the Koran when they shot him through the chest • they fired into the
closet • the kitchen • the ninety-year-old standing over the stove • just where
was I • uno a uno tu cara en todos los buses urbanos • Here lie the mortal remains of one who in life searched your face • call me when you get home • let’s
miss an appointment together • let’s miss another flight to repeated strip
searches • that Haditha bed • magenta queen sheets and a wood-shelved headboard
and blood splattered up the walls to the ceiling • they held each other • they
slept on opposing ends wishing one would leave • mother doesn’t know who I am
anymore • I write Mustapha Mohammad Khalaf, fifteen months old • I write Here lies an unknown martyr, a big security guard with a blue
shirt, found near an industrial area with a chain of keys • Martyr unknown, only bones • they ask if I have anything to
declare then limit my response to fruits and nuts • an American interrupts an A
and B conversation to tell me you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do • he strikes me as a misstep away from she was asking for it • what did you expect after fishing
Popov from a trash bin • what did you expect after accepting a marbled palace •
they drag the man who killed my uncle out of a hole • they inspect him for
ticks on national television • no one in my family celebrates • when the FBI
knocks I tell them I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to do; they
get a kick out of that • she just lay there and took it like a champ • she was
dying for it • at a protest a man sells a shirt that says My dick would pull out of Iraq • my mother tape-records my laugh to
mail bubble-wrapped back home • my mother records me singing Ye shabe mahtab mah meeyad to khab • I am singing the moon will come one
night and take me away sidestreet by sidestreet • sitting on a pilled suburban
carpet or picking blue felt off the hand-me-down couch • the displaced whatnots
• I practice the work of worms • how much I can wear away with no one watching
• two generations ago my blood moved through borders according to grazing and
seasons • then a lifeline of planes • planes fly so close to my head filled
with bomblets and disappeared men • scaffolding sprouts nooses sagging with my
dead • I burn my finger on the broiler and smell trenches • my uncle pissing
himself • shopping bags are legs • there is half a head in the gutter • I say Hello NSA when
I place a call • somewhere a file details my sexual habits • some tribunal may
read it all back to me • Golsorkhi, I know the cell they will put me in • they
put me onto a crooked pile of others to rot • is this what happens to a brain
born into war • a city of broken teeth • the thuds of falling • we have learned
to sing a child calm in a bomb shelter • I am singing to her still
