Ash by Raghad Al Rijraji

Posted on March 8, 2014 by

0


Maybe endurance chose us
so we can familiarize ourselves
with our family car’s leather backseats.
The same ones we’ve cracked
from fidgeting;
unwilling to assume the role of
towing behind.
We’re such perfect candidates
to carry endurance.
I swear.
We’ve claimed so many roadsides
as ours,
for the rush,
because we’d gone
from 15 to 20
in the most stunted way possible.
Now we’re talking about lavender fields
peonies adorning vases
the french revolution
Charles Bukowski
walking through the fire
and we’ve never even wandered off
into our city
or had our shoulders kiss
the palm trees on the pavements.
Woman,
we look like funerals
when we’re standing under the sun.
Woman,
blessed is your endurance.
Your praying matt.
Your womb.
Your spine.
Woman,
ash is the color of the washed out
sand clinging to our definitions.

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