By Soraya Qahwaji
Fall 2021 | Poetry
Come and visit me some time:
hell, circle nine, round four,
It’s cold here and nothing grows,
not even the weeds of remorse.
I used to have guests, you know,
before I sent them down the river.
Nobody told me that
when you kill the past,
you become a shadow.
Now that I have my freedom,
someone who used to belong somewhere
is using my toothbrush.
There is no room left in my house
for the gifts I didn’t give my sister.
I used to have children, you know,
before I harvested their innocence.
Do not begrudge me my twistedness,
it is my homage to goodness.
Even the devil cannot but praise God,
although he praises by defiling.
I’ve buried myself
where light cannot reach,
cast the key into the void,
but I’ll never be able
to extinguish the sun.
Soraya Qahwaji is a poet of whom nothing is known. Now let’s look at her poems.
by Jade Hidle
... and she turns and smiles into me, / understanding the crevices and crests and coils of the language that every woman before us / whispered into their babies’ ears ...
by Jennifer Crow
... peace, they say, will be terrible / full of banalities and consumer / goods, too many varieties / of potatoes ...