Shadi Eskandani

pure water one step after next unwashed movement unwarranted inside a room in a moment’s hush this summer day intrusion presses down into the small of her back hot skin sticky memory discomposed disposable across time space delicate hands hold railing – cold metal comfort for a girl child in this unforgivable heat.

boundless beyond four corners a river vermillion brilliant its rise spilling defiance seeping into everything everywhere. how precious this gift of telling truths being a mountain amidst exaltations of hate. between bullets tear gas traces of truth breath blood and masses upon masses – a multitude’s infinite movement humanity in full bloom.

Infinite Movement: Reflections of (Post) Trauma For many years, I wanted to understand the normalization of trauma, relating to those of us who lived under conditions that demanded it. I wanted to know how the most terrifying of experiences became routine, that in a given moment everything became a matter of reflex, your mind not…

acute phonetics – for dorothy, sunil’s mom a needle a thread a shunning of words disposing of this wilderness within   this wanting for more. her fingers to lips rip skin scarlet motion methodical mind made up sewn shut. a woman of no words tames the violence of longing her silence   deliberate as a massacre.

Lady Lazarus.    

Haiku catches shadows with her hands safe keeps them in jars closely holding this darkness

expansion 1. rotting brick broke tenement crack(ed) cement scent acidic sweet amu incense cubed sugar turmeric tongue dissolves home   honeys exile with hibiscus syrup swallows everything lost counts children and tasbih finds ease in numbers   dua dwelling alleyways in between her legs   promise of passport refuge dollars endurance on fleek in these side streets   alhamdullilah…

Ecliptic (Fifth Cycle) seven years severe this stretch/a vulgar fraction a division of self 49 times over seeking refuge in giving refuge holding head with both hands swallowing stories in sequence mathematics always seven is the number of skies the number of doors to hell there is no shimmer in loss only mass buried beneath…

Burnt Amber She speaks of concrete living pointed stares jagged smiles berry lips maneuver words into riddles, safe keeping what little shimmer she holds inside fists everyday. Colors she desired stay lost between splashes of disdain, decades of seclusion, canvas tarnished. Haunted eyes glazed in a blunted trance she is no longer that woman and…

A Day at the Beach A kiss on each strawberry sherbet hand as salt breeze sway soft curls framing her butterscotch face buried into daddy’s chest. Sunlit reflections break into water a father and his little princess ripple intricate patterns, infinite promises: a sweeter future. Like specks of a distant complexion, identity bends one generation into…