mother and her land
i feel the urge of my mother
married too soon
they set me out
on a path of men
i found no love
only traces of God
in my loneliness
in drought
i peel your fingers off my body
in rain
my throat
i wake with the sunrise
the rays against my eyelashes
moving like kurdish dancers
newroz lies in wait
trying to escape my lungs
my arms are painted by the colors of his anger
purple as the tulips baba grows when he longs for home
the men here break bones over tea
and have dessert after
so i let him finish
and have dessert after
the colors of my skin change
with each passing day
baba calls me his flower
do not cry
your mother did not cross oceans
to see her daughter drowning
breathe in
the air is light
your heart is too heavy
to be carried by a man
gasping
as a child
i would wrap my hijab before bed
hoping to choke in sleep
now i am older
but do the same
with your arm
at times
i cry until my eyes fall
he says they are his favorite stars
at others
i wrap them in worn bandages
even god gave the earth six days to heal
Sôz: “I am a Kurdish refugee yet to master resettlement in Ohio. My work is in its infancy, but I am searching for God between a loose Kurdish heritage, religiosity and the weight of suffering as the human condition. My mother knows I write but can not read my poems. I keep everything this sacred from my father.”