DIRT by Nadia Farjami

Dirt

my great-uncle

drenches the

headlines in honey;

he watches syllables slur together

and become

illegible under a sunny ooze

 

my great-uncle

doesn’t know

that

i wake up early to

read the paper before him,

that

i let scalding sentences slide down

my spine,

that

i coax crinkled commas into

my ears

 

my great-uncle

holds a

skinned

rabbit

in one hand

and a

riffle

in the other

 

when i beg him to

dispose of the danger in his palms,

he says

i’m just a child

 

he says that

forbidden words stumble out

of my mouth,

words about a world

without weapons

 

he says

he’ll

destroy the dirt dancing on

my tongue

 

he feeds

me detergent for

dinner

 

he doesn’t know

that

dreams can’t be

disinfected