Armeika

build a home out of skin

now i have no address

& every day

try to build a home out of skin

& bones

without bleeding out
i move into a crowded room

& mop the floor

so someone will have a reason

to keep me around
one day i am nauseous

with loss
& paint

with a stick of cinnamon

the memory of gone country

into the doors
& mark

with my knuckles

latitudes of displacement

along the dry wall
i paint joy,

it is brown & streaked
it is a birthmark

with bloodshot eyes
running through the house

like the nile overflowing

in the season of nearby rains

Umniya Najaer