Another world comes wrapped in 

torn envelopes and photographs,

it brings my father's tanned hands

Now it brings a whistling teapot, now a pair of eyes,

it brings a pair of eyes.

it brings dripping ceilings,

and the 4 a.m. calm,

all back into my windowless apartment room,

somewhere in this new tow,.

Now it brings my mother's heart,

half of which hangs from the doorknob of our house.

What do I remember about my mother?

that she had many children,

some dead, some buried, some numb and insane,

so many clinging to her breast,

so many yet to come,

that she walked like a sinner, like an infidel,

shameless, aimless and unamused,

or do i just remember that she lived: she lived, loved, unloved

Now my mother tells me of an unseasoned afternoon,

of her children washing ashore,

of the subtle plunk of her oars when it hit the water around them,

Now she tells me of the promise she made that very morning:

i will find them and bring them home.

She said she kept her promise,

and then washed the dead.

She said she buried them, one by one

part by part,

feet

hands

and then eyes.

And now her front porch looks like the brown graveyard of her stomach, her heart.

She tells me of Shahid's verses and I wonder,

I wonder if God ever sobbed in her arms too.

People tell me she laughed too much,

or that she had a lovely nose.

that they sighed for her house in the hills.

They say she was an infidel.

The sound of laughter drifts up from the street below and I remember my mother.

Tell them she had many children,

believers, infidels, insurgents, drunks,

some dead, some buried alive,

cold, numb and insane,

so many lost, so many yet to come.

Tell them she laughed way too much for she knew for she knew

how hard it was to describe the sound of ripping flesh,

of bodies floating, of blood oozing,

the sound of a bullet/the sound of a last breath.

The sound of laughter drifts up from the street below.

Now i'm alone, now i remember my mother.

More letters arrive but my mother never does,

Half her heart hangs from my ceiling,

Shahid's verses sound bleak.

The sound of laughter drifts up from the street below,

what do I know about my mother?

Does she still live with half a heart?

Does she hang it on the doorknob

or does it lie in some corner of her half-burnt house?