a map of trauma's brain

from by Orooj-e-Zafar



Start here, at south--
your coccyx is broken;
never birth again.

South is all there is.

Where are all the curves you learned?
You are only
to stretch;
he snatched the master
from your lordeses.

Your body is trying to embrace wide,
stretch from the west
to the east, contain the damage
where your heart once was.
Not every enemy looks the same,
every enemy is not your own skin.

Up north, the flower in your stem is breathlessly
yelling at your consciousness.
You are not vegetative, even
if you can't exclaim
as a comma.

Tremors. Everywhere.
He -
his sight,
his talking dirty,
his phantom limb -
is everywhere.

The compass could never give you
this motion sickness; he is sound, not
noise you can tune out. Your cortex has imprinted
the enemy and the most practiced,
associated, punished

You are here, contrite--
out of rage,
submitting to your humble,
drooping kneel.

Now, there is far less of you to take care of;
South is all there is.


from all the colors my hair has worn, released November 4, 2016



all rights reserved


Orooj-e-Zafar Islamabad, Pakistan

I love stories and pouring meaning into everything humans do.

learning to be softer since '96.

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