Rabaa

By Emily Owen

Revolution is the sound of helicopters buzzing past

my fourteenth floor apartment drawing circles

around tented dissenters sited

five hundred meters - my house.

One. Two. Three. Like giant flies they hover.

The tanks come tomorrow. The shooting continues.

I stay away from my plate glass sliding balcony doors.  

I army crawl across my terrace to sneak a peak:

molitov cocktails blooming below. A tire barricade is set on fire.

School delays- two weeks.

This bloody piece of meat in my chest thumps to the drums

thrummed by mourners memorializing the dead.

Thousands march on Shehab street, blocking traffic. Everyone protests,

until midnight on Sundays, Tuesdays and Thursdays.

I cannot sleep.

Yes, Mom and Dad. I am safe.

No, it’s pretty boring in my apartment.

Four days.

In pursuit of freedom,

lies and truth chase each other

blurring colors into one ball of motion.

The twist of a word, the flick of a tongue.

On twitter and television,

too many voices are chanting: God is great

for me to hear God at all.

He stopped speaking.

So, have I.

*

Emily is a poet and teacher living in Istanbul. Her work explores themes of intercultural relationships, language, and identity that are influenced by the places she has lived. She also loves to bake, rock climb and owns a bike named James. 

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