The porch light comes on,
A spread of family-
Children in front of the TV,
Porcelain faced and cotton dressed.
Mother with a magazine on her lap,
Fingers draping the pages, practiced and precise,
Screening the what-ifs of her past life.
I dread being put into line like traitors,
Words like ammunition,
Over a few mumbled phrases.
My father was the government,
I, one of the many wounded veterans,
At the very ripe age of ten.
It was the only thing there,
To be absorbed by the colorless days of back then.
When words of misogynistic men were friends,
I hold onto the promise that the world is out there.
Not screens of black oblivion,
And fake grass.
Now,
I look at the world without the filter of words,
I make a living out of what used to be hell,
And what can I say except that it’s just alright.
I am a writer,
Stringing dead memories back to life.
By Ms. Alia Nasution