My country calls it weeping

My country calls it sowing
sixteen pellets in a young

boy’s head. This is where it rains
silver storms. Crows bark before

the light fractures in a thousand
directions, seeping into azure

fissures. My country calls it sewing
unions. There is a pack hunting

outside margins of civility, for the
rain is never less than metal showers;

even birds have learnt to read
the language of burnt holes in

their domain. It rains the smell of
floras on stems of silver lava. My

country calls it owning, the waste of
a life if not having lived it shorter.

And dawn’s whinny on rigid hooves.
We celebrate the cracking of fire

like it is the only substance we know.
My country calls it elevating

every minor to the quick level;
the hands of silver tombs – smooth

palms yet to learn to crush mosquitoes.
How else will they learn to survive

anthropological upheavals when they arrive?
Countries such as mine deserve silver

linings on the horizon, where they
originated from the holes we now

call pores. Countries such as mine
get credited so little for inventions:

we are the benchmarks of rain,
the weeping silvers

the staining nebula
the confetti of red.

Sheikha A. is from Pakistan and United Arab Emirates. Her works appear in a variety of literary venues, both print and online, including several anthologies by different presses. Her poetry has been translated into Spanish, Greek, Arabic, Polish Italian, Albanian and Persian. More about her can be found at Read other articles by SheikhaA, or visit SheikhaA's website.