By Roj Amedi

Edited by Omar Sakr


My mother broke her back

trying to do the impossible:


grow us new tongues

crack into new bones.

In Springvale I foraged the streets

for low hanging fruits. Floating


back and forth. See Iraq with black

and white vision. There are no new


images. Peer through the window

at abundance, a far away place.


I dragged books across the ground,

danced with unfamiliar sounds.


The house here is shrinking.
It was so large


when we arrived. Or maybe we were

small. I see shop signs that speak


to me, only me. There is a gap

between my teeth wide enough


for two countries. I push

my tongue into it.


Roj Amedi is an editor, writer and strategist. She writes and speaks on a range of issues including politics, the arts, culture, public policy, gender and race.