A Jewel From the Clavicle

Poem by Lady Narrator

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An earthquake strikes: electrifies
membranes into tectonic plates, grinding
one against another.
Midline shifts; disconnects
fibers—brain stem from spinal cord.
 
Mind paralyzed: erases
the language of breathing.
The art of air, wiped clean
from the canvas of thought.
Lost in translation between exhale and inhale.
 
Cut a jewel from the clavicle:
call it tracheotomy.
The mining of skin for air.
Exhale. Inhale. Can you tell me your name, dad?
He only speaks breath now.
 
Mucus: comes up in place of words.
Rubied and clunky—the body’s rebellion.
A rejection to the trespassing, the excavation for oxygen.
My stomach turns.
I reject the rejection.
 
Evolution: it plays a role in the mucus
just as much as it does in me.
We loosen,
lighten into a virgin pink—cerebral fault lines
trying to find their way back together.
 
Can you tell me my name, dad?
Sixteen weeks and he speaks to me
in coughs; even grayish-yellow slime becomes a measure
of love. Of how much I could’ve accepted of him,
that I once turned my back to.
 
Gloveless now, I clean the skin above his heart
and he looks at me, sadly.
Through his mucus he shares
all the faith he regrets never having
in me.

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Dania Ayah Alkhouli (a.k.a. Lady Narrator) is a Syrian Pushcart Prize-nominated writer, poet, editor, and author. Her work centers on survivorship, feminism, domestic violence/sexual assault, death & grief, religion & culture, and her homeland, Syria. Alkhouli serves as Creative Director & co-founder of the traveling museum A Country Called Syria.