Nuar Alsadir



Your mother’ s in the kitchen and out
and in again. It’ s all about them.

They’ ve taken over like the dark cloud
hanging low over the back yard,

a fat aunt coming in for a hug.
Enough’ s enough. The door opens:

new guests flow in as the old
back you up like mangroves.

Why get dressed up to stay in?
Pretend to befriend other children

because they have been dumped next to you?
Resistance, then fire, then to your room

without toys. Later, it’ ll be the boys
to whom your friends will cater,


We are descending again in parallel —
I cannot say together — as in another dream

you rushed through the first door
without me. It was late. Your name

was an elevator door resisting its rail,
its screech my only attempt to reach you.

Was it the hurt that filled the elevator
I entered with gurneys and gowned girls,

incubated hearts pumping for a home?
Floors flicker as they fall.

The girls’ chatter flaps shrill at light,
tangles in my hair and away