PHOTO: MERIÇ DAĞLI /UNSPLASH poetry Six Poems by Mahtem Shiferraw Nomenclatures II Those which we are given in the brink of sorrow, or joy – or both; those marked on our foreheads the curse of a generation, or more, marked on our abdomens birthmarks, like numbers aligning us with a history we seem to forget; those we carry within years later, many lands apart, having something rotten from the inside out our bodies finally drooping with the weight of the firmament; those we carve new and milky, pasty on our foreign tongues monosyllabic, odd things reminding us of everywhere, nowhere; those we receive, or hear and not dissent to, shaping themselves from our hair, the shape of our bodies, the color of our skin, the foreign-ness of our mouths; and those filled with grief and strife – the names of our fathers and foremothers, beaming through centuries, across the black seas and into new lands, carrying us throughout, containing us – containing this, all of it, all our names and naming, calling us of something filled with grim love. Dust and Bones Stranded at sea, bubble from the earth, dust and bones slide on my face. This is not my story; but in it I stand called by other names; the ghosts of my past selves all reaching at the same time and all refusing this – this foreignness they smell like something burned and tossed. I dream of covering my body with the white salt of Assab’s dunes – even Lot’s wife whispered the name of her city with her last breath. Instead, this body is bone, constructed to fracture into multitudes, black mud or dust splintering my sides here, there, here, this, a new beginning, a new death. WORLDLIT.ORG 15 poetry six poems by mahtem shiferraw War I have been described by it, often seen it rise up the mouths of strangers, as if to say all things foreign – note: referring to me, or, my body, as a thing; an object – are made of war, or: things infested by war. This thing, I also notice, comes within language: that which we use to define our own, or not; the knowing we choose to acknowledge, that which we ignore; this thing, is also a fruit: thorns on the outside, bleeding meat on the inside, quenching a thirst, a cry, nostalgia for simpler days. War, I find, is also this: constant hiding, home within invisibility, or worry, or brokenness. Not knowing what to do or say to the grief-stricken. Having to explain, amidst tears, or bewilderment, the difference between the immigrant, and the refugee. I am inclined to think: wretched, once there, now here – lost. The constant loss, coating our skin like thin ash. Having to beg – see me, see this humanness in me. The knowing of our new selves: as an alien – again, a thing, an object. Having to count our fears too; that of assimilation, that of unbelonging, that of a new death, imminent threat. Knowing the gendered histories of our bodies too, and shaping a way to forgetfulness – to survive this thing – note here: not an object, but a constant self of being. The Languages I Speak The languages I speak come to me in my dreams. One is a serpent, but I don’t know which one. Toothless and with blue venom, it enters my veins, and I let it breathe black blood. When we shed our skin, we stand, suddenly naked and alone, our belly bloated with thousands of words we do not recall. We call this learning. The learning we do takes years to muster, and never leaves. One is an empty cloak, but its one, red eye is turned backward. It does not see me, or it does, and I do not know. The hissing sound we hear is not new, but slowly whorls our ears, our movements. On cloudy days, it sounds like music too, but do not let it fool you. I do not ask where I fit within the cloak – inside or out. One is a cloud that refuses to rain – this one drags itself behind me, its body the exact shape of my shadow, and though fuchsia, or...
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Feb 10, 2024
Thomas Cassar 
