Poetry

We Are Under Siege

Dikra Ridha

 

My bread and bitter tea wait on the table.
The bullets are not on the ground yet,
I’d best not go out since they cordoned off
the area, anything can happen outside
                                                               or inside.

While sunlight is welcomed through layers
of curtains that hide my shadow, and night time

is counted by hours of breathing quietly,
the TV, used one hour a day, can still break

down; seeing how I live from day to day. The school

across the street can land on its children, and guns

choose any house they want. I can only listen
to my neighbour, and hide behind my fridge,

holding on to its body. Old, it whirs into my palms,

its rusty metal bends the hairs on my arms, we shiver.

Every now and then it murmurs louder; its engine worn

out with a timed life. I sigh with it,
                                                         and wait for my turn.