for Hamood
I cannot grow tired
of this body, stitched
from shreds of mangled memory,
every bone a sunken sorrow
This body
a map of sanity worn thin,
beauty’s contours fading into nothingness,
bordered by scars,
where silence gathers to heal
at the price of a river
leaving its body of absence.
Blind trespassers find
a forgotten dark country here,
to trade in glazed but bitter
consciousness, their coin of loss.
Each scar scrolls its own narrative
in tongues, of an unmarked nation
where to enter is to leave,
and leaving, to stay within this body
I cannot grow tired of—
nor old from—
this body
stitched with the silent syllables of grief
