Nathalie Handal
Her Last Letter, Year after Year
I have a scar from my brother on my hip,
another from a policeman on my back,
another from a stranger on my left arm, and
on my palm, one from the man I love most,
my scars have never spoken, but together
keep my body collected. And you—are you
a tree trunk of words with different bruises,
or am I drifting too far into our future?
History of Hurts
The man I love was killed, my mother declared in the kitchen as she drained
milk. She shut her eyes until the darkness exploded like he did, when he left
her on her back, after he beat her before he made love to her, like thunder
crushing a mountain village. She wondered if love is a revolt. She didn’t
understand yet how nations work, how they drag your scars through dirt
roads, until they are all you have to hold you up.