WAR Poem: Mémoire (Or “Memo-War”) by Hajer Requiq

She sat with war in her eyes,
between her fingers,
clinging to her skin
like incense
anyone could pick up the smell
miles away.
She was more war than woman,
more loss than human.
Her body a refugee camp,
thronged with
her people’s sadness —
In war, everyone is kin.

When she parts her lips,
lead-pellets come running
down her chin.
When she speaks,
we can hear revolvers spiralling
down her throat,
the syllables flaking off
into bullet chips.
Her parents and three children
she left back home.
Sometimes, we suspect they are
permanently grafted
onto her skin.
At night, she dreams of her children —
One faceless body
of human tragedy.
Her husband’s lips curl like rope.
around her neck
When he whispers how much
he’s missed her,
the words drop off like missiles
onto her heart —

War may have taught her
to give love,
but it has made receiving it
her worst fear.
When she was little,
her mother used to sing to her
to drown out the sound of bombings.
Now, she could have her ears cemented
and still hear the bombs.
Her mother’s face
was a time-worn wallpaper.
It peeled away.
She had skin scabbed
with bombed houses,
stomach littered
with rubble.

Her father was one long strand
of prayers,
his arms two minarets
rising and collapsing
for worship.
With his beard,
he could map out
the entire land
and brush the debris
off bombed cities.
Throughout her childhood,
her father recited Al-Baqarah
more times than he addressed her
for speech.
Now, he smiles from her wallet,
the smile almost a cringe,
his beard sometimes
tangled around her heart.
Even the young men
who come to visit
with coconut oil
and Vaseline pots,
grease her with more shame
than love —

What war has made her into,
love can never undo.