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Poem

Return Me to My Home

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Alternative title: ุฑุฌุนูˆู†ูŠ ุนู„ู‰ ุฏุงุฑูŠ

โ€œุฑุฌุนูˆู†ูŠ ุนู„ู‰ ุฏุงุฑูŠโ€
she demanded 
โ€œreturn me to my homeโ€
she protested
she objected
as they carried her achingly 
upon shuddering shoulders, 
hefting and hefted: both against their will
no choice but to defy a vicious rhythm 
thrust upon them by bloodthirsty villains
drunk on the illusion of power

***

and then the fever broke

or so it seemed

it was announced ahead of time
like dropping salvation into the sky
so it would be just out of reach
while the seconds until it arrived upon the earth
were counted in souls
in breaths 
who bore witness to the news breaking
only to be barred from living the moment of release
only to be culled as well
as if the world demanded them as additional tax, 
as if all that my people have been robbed of so far 
has not been enough for justice, 
for peace
if i didnโ€™t know who was really in control
i would wonder if our blood was really that cheap

***

โ€œุฑุฌุนูˆู†ูŠ ุนู„ู‰ ุฏุงุฑูŠโ€
โ€œreturn me to my homeโ€
she demanded 

and when they returned
i wonder: 
was she with them?
did she make it?
did she find her home?

and then they returned 
we have never returned before

***

i donโ€™t remember ever shedding the desire 
to go home

i used to ache for the moment of return
to that neighborhood and those buildings 
to those streets and those trees
to familiarity
to a childhood home
i used to wait

until i stopped
realizing no matter how many times i change the bandage,
this wound will never cease to bleed
i stopped waiting to go home
when i started understanding departure
when i had no choice but to befriend the unknown
i stopped waiting to go home โ€”
but it would be the biggest lie ever told
if i said i stopped wanting to

***

and then they returned
like tide at full moon
like air into choking lungs
like a child to her motherโ€™s touch

covered in scars and still bleeding
bidding goodbye and still grieving 
facing suffocation and still breathing
and yet upon it all, returning
daring us stop dreaming
daring us to start living

***

โ€œand then the fever brokeโ€
at least, thatโ€™s what they said

if the fever has broken, and all is well 
why then, is the patient still bleeding out in shackles?
behind bars, and not in bed?


Sundus Aladra is a California-born everywhere-raised writer of Palestinian origin. Writing has been one of her most steadfast companions in the face of life's unpredictable ups and downs, and she thinks we all could use a little more of it in our world. Sundus holds a bachelor's degree in Political Science and International Relations and in her free time can be found trying to juggle her wide expanse of creative hobbies. She is excited to join MYM and can't wait to see where this path will lead.

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