“the Burden Of Words,” A Poem By Fatemeh Shams

“The Burden of Words”

I deliberation of nan load of words
how they hollow pinch repetition.
“Evacuation orders,” “Nuclear Bombs,” “Final solutions”
I deliberation of nan load of memory—
how it storms backmost pinch each breath:
Friends, locked successful solitary confinement,
Mass graves pinch nary names.
Patients abandoned successful hospitals.
Father, dying successful our home
dreaming of my return,
as if my presence could anchor him to life.
I scroll done nan ruins of our home:
A grainy black-and-white photo—
a 45-year-old mother, rushing location to soothe her toddler.
A family picture.
The last grin of a Red Crescent nurse.
The charred remains of a two-month-old—
all obliterated by missiles.
My past
walks down nan hallway
returned from a agelong warfare that lasted 8 years and killed 1 million
she knocks connected my door
with only 1 arm.
Silently, I watch
but nary longer admit her.
smoke fills nan hallway.
she wipes her tears
with an quiet sleeve
then shuts nan doorway forever.
Behind her warfare remains
and swallows her footprints.
40 years later:
I scroll up.
Orphans displaced again,
driven from their refuge to an chartless shelter.
I remember
Our authorities only sheltered america pinch missiles.
to support america poor,
to termination successful God’s name.
I deliberation of nan load of survival
15 years successful exile, and counting
And watching my homeland burning from afar

I deliberation of my sister—sheltering successful a stranger’s home,
with 2 different families she’s ne'er known.
She is of 92 cardinal vagabonds crossed Iran.
One of 10 cardinal farewells whispered successful Tehran.
I deliberation of nan load of words
Of warfare songs pinch nary singers.
Of tongues that situation not speak.
Of chemic wings, flying from nan ghettos of Poland
to nan camps of Lebanon,
their shadows formed long—
from Gaza to Tehran.
I deliberation of my mother’s eyes
under nan achromatic rainfall of summer.
I deliberation of Chernobyl successful Iran.
Eight is simply a cursed number,
and this is nan eighth day
of madness.
Our rhymes died pinch children successful breadstuff lines
Our voices arsenic quiet arsenic their mothers’ arms.
They opportunity to constitute poesy aft atrocity is barbaric
but what other remains?
We etch our condolences successful a dying tongue,
each connection a betrayal,
each soundlessness a wound.
What is near of language
when it cannot extremity nan killing?
When it cannot cradle a child?
Still, I write—
not to forgive
but to remember.