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July 8, 2020 Poetry

in the year 2148, our only nakba

Fargo Tbakhi

in the year 2148, our only nakba photo

is the egg yolk, broken when it was meant to be fried, 
the sobbing of a child who’s just found 
that their favorite character does not survive, 

the scraped knee, the store out of cigarettes (already?)
the unreturned love, a freezing morning 
with the jacket left at home, time and the wicked 

things it does to the flesh, the dog’s unthinking 
shit, the stained rug, the stubbed toe, 
the earth’s unthinking belch, a perilously polished floor 

and the winsome slipping of a whole healthy foot, 
“you told them?” and the fallout of a slipped word
or three, the awkward silence when the maqlouba 

doesn’t flip quite right, the pigeons back into the garden 
again though you swore you’d finally managed to shoo 
them away for good this time, and in this future 

with a home uncontested, wholly ours, without the cold 
blue anger of a body’s clockwork stolen, what is left?
what is left of that cruel and unredeemable life? simply

the good hard glare of a cousin whose feet you have just 
mystified, sent the ball sneaking past them to goal, simply
the world’s tiny catastrophes and the moments they sweeten. 


image: Ivan Bandura