The Home I Left Behind
Mekdes Jemberu
My home has blackened
like a cloud
repeating everything I did . . .
piling dirt on dirt
until the grime infects my eyes
gaps in floorboards . . . corners stopped
with beautifully knitted rugs
but hiding thorns and caked with dust . . .
my old home . . . you I left behind
hated and abandoned . . . refused to look at . . .
you who I denied . . .
you go on calling . . . answers I held back
have formed an edge . . . grown teeth
that click as they approach me now . . .
piercing my raw skin with memories
an empty hill . . . the creaking hull of you
suspended there . . . calling my name
a shabby tent that mocks me . . . brings me back
unrests me sensing my exhaustion . . . the contrite
state that I have reached . . . you who rock me
back and forth . . . the hill and pit and you . . .
cracked earth . . . a valley gorge . . . a cave
to hide myself inside . . . the slope and steep
where we assembled and discussed . . .
laid bets . . . argued . . . you who pulls a dagger
made of steely sorrows . . . sticks it in my side
I am a woman born from my regrets
I am loud with them . . . I cannot shy away
there is no logic in the things I took for granted
trivial as childs’ play . . . a sudden noise . . .
my tolerance and patience pilfered . . . gone
now my broken home . . . you rebuild yourself
while the marriage I neglected mocks me . . .
I will always be in labor . . . feel my pain
increase as time goes by . . . a death row prisoner
weaker as the days tick by . . . homeless leftover
of withered charms. . . lethargic
my old home . . . you blacken
like a wave retreating . . . rising and receding . . .
you swagger all around me . . . wrestle me
and draw your flashbacks on my eyelids
throw your grit into my eyes . . .
you punch me . . . you floor me
like a cloud
repeating everything I did . . .
piling dirt on dirt
until the grime infects my eyes
gaps in floorboards . . . corners stopped
with beautifully knitted rugs
but hiding thorns and caked with dust . . .
my old home . . . you I left behind
hated and abandoned . . . refused to look at . . .
you who I denied . . .
you go on calling . . . answers I held back
have formed an edge . . . grown teeth
that click as they approach me now . . .
piercing my raw skin with memories
an empty hill . . . the creaking hull of you
suspended there . . . calling my name
a shabby tent that mocks me . . . brings me back
unrests me sensing my exhaustion . . . the contrite
state that I have reached . . . you who rock me
back and forth . . . the hill and pit and you . . .
cracked earth . . . a valley gorge . . . a cave
to hide myself inside . . . the slope and steep
where we assembled and discussed . . .
laid bets . . . argued . . . you who pulls a dagger
made of steely sorrows . . . sticks it in my side
I am a woman born from my regrets
I am loud with them . . . I cannot shy away
there is no logic in the things I took for granted
trivial as childs’ play . . . a sudden noise . . .
my tolerance and patience pilfered . . . gone
now my broken home . . . you rebuild yourself
while the marriage I neglected mocks me . . .
I will always be in labor . . . feel my pain
increase as time goes by . . . a death row prisoner
weaker as the days tick by . . . homeless leftover
of withered charms. . . lethargic
my old home . . . you blacken
like a wave retreating . . . rising and receding . . .
you swagger all around me . . . wrestle me
and draw your flashbacks on my eyelids
throw your grit into my eyes . . .
you punch me . . . you floor me
translated from the Amharic by Fasika Ayalew and Chris Beckett