The Body Is Not a Place to Forget
Morning continues somewhere—
a cup held without shaking,
a name answered the first time.
Here,
the body is kept
where the law no longer speaks—
its mouth closed,
its tongue taken—
and the room fills
with instructions
that never learn mercy.
They beat
until the bones answer
in a sound not made for them.
Light—too bright—
drills into the skull.
Cold—too sharp—
sets inside the joints.
Dark—too long—
grows teeth.
They call it waiting.
The body knows.
Some stand for hours
under water cold enough
to take the skin first,
then the thought.
Rain, elsewhere,
touches the ground
and leaves nothing behind.
Others are buried in the earth
up to the neck—
sand entering the mouth
before air can return.
The same earth, elsewhere,
opens for roots.
There are rooms where dogs
move at a word.
Bodies are dragged forward,
opened past themselves,
past the last boundary
they could name.
A hand, somewhere,
rests on a shoulder
and does not press.
The camera remains awake.
Laughter does not stop.
It repeats.
Across rooms.
Across cities.
Across bodies.
Each one learning
how quickly a body
becomes something
that absorbs pain
and is required to remain.
Hands pass the edge of skin.
Objects speak
inside the body.
Elsewhere is quiet—
not peaceful,
only untouched.
Threats travel outward—
into homes,
into the dead.
Blood.
Bone.
What can be taken.
The ground
does not keep count.
Some are returned
in fragments—
a tooth,
a piece of bone.
At certain tables,
names are spoken
as if they might still arrive.
The rest remain
without witness.
A day meant for light
ends in a room that hums.
Glass breaks.
What was beginning
does not continue.
Where there were places of prayer,
there is rubble.
Stone remains.
What it carried
does not.
On the sea,
names were carried in breath.
They are taken from the water,
struck,
dragged,
bound—
their bodies arranged
into shapes
light does not take in.
The hunger strike
is a language.
The body turns
against itself
to be heard.
Bruise.
Fracture.
Mark.
The body is named
and unmade
by that name.
A voice blesses the night.
If the body is not sacred,
nothing is withheld.
What happens
is given other words:
war.
conflict.
complex.
The body remains
behind them.
And still—
breath continues.
A door opens somewhere
without fear.
The boat returns.
The body returns
carrying what was done
without end.
If you hear
and remain still,
the silence
continues it.
Not only in the room,
not only in the cell,
not only in the sea—
but here:
where the body
is broken again
by not being kept.