The Porcelain Wrist
Sister, I know,
Your house is burning–
But I cannot lend you a hand, for my wrist
Is made of porcelain. The melted walls
Of your house trickle like ketchup on chips;
Their acrid fumes send echoes of your cries
Over the seven seas. I read your list,
Your roll-call of dead children, I see halls
Of prayer soak up your blood. I watch clips,
I write petitions to the earth and skies;
But I cannot lend you a hand, for my wrist
Is made of porcelain.
Sister, I know,
Porcelain does not burn; but it breaks, it breaks!
It breaks under the hammers of ‘you’re next, then’.
So, sister, when
You ask me to bring you a bucket, to throw
Water on the flames devouring your children,
I send you a prayer instead.
Hibah Shabkhez is a writer of the half-yo literary tradition, an erratic language-learning enthusiast, and a happily eccentric blogger from Lahore, Pakistan. Her work has previously appeared in Plainsongs, Microverses, Sylvia Magazine, Better Than Starbucks, Post, Wine Cellar Press, and a number of other literary magazines.
