My silence maker, He who knows
of chance & capture. He who assigns
a death for breakfast. He whose name we left
out & replaced of estrangement—
My God, He who got the whole
story, He who knew & didn’t interfere, He who watched. He who raced to run the image from my head. He
all my women sick & my Father unspeaky. He who know. He who watched. He who probably thought about
My wide borrowed mercy forgot these names:
The One that the state of non-existence is impossible for Him.
The One who does not need the creation but creates.
The creator of Death. The One who the count of things are known to Him—
my forever aloneness for You
my wrong-forgiving family
my praying stopped
my brother gone
The One who watched. He who witnessed. And He who know nothing needed to be
it works. i give it to everyone i meet. i have a liver
and your son doesn’t know what
to do with it the saying goes, ‘i’ll eat your liver’
but first, he’d have to have it pick a season
to set it in, we all wonder how the ladies livers
look i have lots of family. they had lots of hearts
some land where none of their own was from you’re my liver
cuz i know i can’t see you & didn’t know what you were for
until i asked. i once held my [ ] til it broke my own.
Hajjar Baban is a Pakistan-born Afghan Kurdish poet. She’s a current First Wave Scholar at the University of Wisconsin–Madison where she studies creative writing, Arabic, and Persian. Her work has appeared in Foundry, The Offing, New Delta Review, Up the Staircase Quarterly, and Radius Lit. She spends most of her time avoiding running from herself.