Louder than Hearts and Derbakkehs
The woman in me is thousands
of years old, her voice louder
than hearts and derbakkehs.*
She calls her children from the farthest
room in the house, screams, Yalla** or else,
says, Eat your food and be grateful. Finish
your plate. And despite all
the parenting books I’ve read,
the ones with instructions
like Talk calmly to the child,
Stoop down to child eye level,
she still comes out
yelling from her height
at my kids when they don’t listen.
She gestures, brings thumb and index together,
threatens them with Wallah wallah you’ll see,
never shows them. She screams
across corridors, from balconies, in playgrounds,
across land-mine fields, broken houses, wastelands.
Some days I manage to put her to sleep,
light her a cigarette, or pour her
a cup of coffee. Some days she boils
in my blood, says, Out of my way.
Some days I hold her in my arms,
rock her back and forth, let her cry.
*Derbakkeh – small Arabic drum
**Yallah – come on
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