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Russian Forces Take Back Nalchik
From Militants Black smears
With guns, Russian Special Forces,
Await action outside a fiery shop
Window. I strain to see borrowed letters
In pictures, read nothing
But sound. Rebels and Islamic Militants
Breathe fire inside. The flames are
Too bright. I am
Deaf to the brainwaves calling
God. Interfax announces 3 dead,
Hostages gone, lights out. 108
People, 12 civilians,
"killed in the fighting."
My son lies dead
In the womb. Nart,
Blood like spilt ink splatters
The Caucasus. Bodies litter the snow-white
Streets as letters smudge
On blank paper, damp beneath
The rain.
Mr. White always stands right
In front of the board.
His hair (so unlike
The night) and (missing) beard stare at us
Through bug-blue eyes as he smiles, teeth
Glimmering like the alphabet.
His (short) fingers linger
Over our first sentences. (There are some
He can't reach. Instead,) He jumps,
Whizzing out high-pitched words
Faster than Disneyland, light and laughter
Never far behind.
He flips us through years,
(His) stories, and pages. We stroll
In Versailles, (skip over Dinshawai's
Fight,) and prance through World War One.
We learn of Janus, Napoleon, and the slaves' plight.
(Revolution anyone?)
He aways on the plane over an uprising
Of square hats to pixels and cartoon
Eyes, the 21st century in sight.
We wave him away.
God damn him, our parents say, and smile
At our graduation gowns shimmering
In the light.
Her world turns upside down
As she enters the saturated womb
Only heard from in glossy postcards. Her
Father mentions it in passing, time
Forgets. They planned to meet
But plans change – now she has two
Plane tickets.
Staying in Moscow is
Out of the question. She'll be in
Transit. "You can learn
The language but you're not built for
The cold." The snow outside her terminal
Window confettis to the ground. Is she
Thinking like Fyodor now? She never did
Understand his problem with fathers
And sons. Perhaps Russia is too full to adopt
Another daughter. But she can't be
Sure. The glass distorts her vision.
A ticket and rubles per pocket,
She grips the souvenir, its plastic buildings and people
Motionless in the water.
She shakes the little sphere to life and
Waits for God to do the same.
Nour Merza is freelance writer and poet. Her family's globetrotting tendencies have allowed her writing to be influenced by places as varied as Saudi Arabia, Chicago, Los Angeles, and the United Arab Emirates. In between reading, writing, and friends, she enjoys learning foreign languages. She is currently studying Mass Communication and International Relations at the American University of Sharjah.