Writing Disorder

I

I have a writing— ‘disorder’—

That’s why I can only work in

    Frag-

-ments;

And I’m terrible at grammar.

‘Isn’t that ironic though?’, I ask her.

And she tells me

Perhaps I ought to do something

else.

 

 

II

 

 

My brother was an emergency

C-section. The umbilical cord

had wrapped itself around his

neck.

 

These days, all he does is

yell—protesting that his

own body even tried to

silence him.

 

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III

 

Mother said I was born

In the place where

the sky meets the land,

but is

Neither.

 

The country I was born in

no longer exists.

 

The woman who bore me

is dead.

 

Home is a

horizon.

 

IV

 

 

Little wooden swing—Red—

Bolted to the kitchen ceiling—

Giddy eccentricity.

Then war—

A necessity.

 

 

V

 

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I look like

my father, everyone

tells me. But

if they could see

my insides,

 

They would all say: ‘You

look like your mother’;

‘Look at your liver, it’s

just like hers’;

‘You have her

stomach!’;

‘Where have I seen

that heart

before?’

 

 

VI

 

 

My mother’s last word:
‘Sorry’—
To the nurses who brought her drugs.

My father cries when he tells me.

The word can’t leave his tongue,

Crushing the muscle under its weight—won’t let him

Form the shape to expel it, so that he sobs:

 

‘S-S-S-S-’

 

By Ena Rušnjak Marković

Twitter: @dragonapples

Images by Ella Chedburn

Website: http://www.emchedburn.com/

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