Atlas & Alice | Issue 7, Summer/Fall 2016
7. Closed eyelids were never an answer. Darkness never sufficed. Wake up, they’d shake me. Bathe me. Stitch me. 8. Father is on the phone again speaking Arabic to family overseas. I don’t understand; he doesn’t want me to. I’ve got all these words but no context. Language is lost in the woods. Cedar trees stand tall. I keep breathing. I thank them for the oxygen. I thank them for the roots. The bent spine, the American tongue—apple too far from the tree. 9. French braids and caged televisions. Imagination trudging through mud. Closed eyelids. Heart monitor singing life into cold, tiled halls.