TINA ZAFREEN ALAM
The Rusty Toque | Issue 13 | Poetry | November 30, 2017
525 years & they are still losttides brought wave after wave
of atlantic salt- water & entitled white men crashing on to taíno shores what future might have been if they were better navigators travelled east- bound hit india moon as my witness once they’re done here they will try & colonize her too on birds clouds dandelion spores & border crossingblue-grey pigeon with iridescent emerald head coos
4 year-old ducky breaks off a piece of graham cracker hops & gingerly places it down birdfeed on saturday at teardrop park wings flapping on winds migratory patterns night skies v-shapes grey skies in blue skies gliding aside clouds speeding through air ordinary birds sea gulls canada geese pigeons city fowl ducky shuffles back summer sun- browned skin & black curls ashy- dusted sand crusted at big slide’s base as pigeon approaches on walkway ducky watches eyes wide just then an older whiter girl runs in arms waving chasing screaming pigeons are crazy! ducky’s jaw drops open in awe maybe sadness bird retreats depending on who you are all our institutions are euphemisms abuse control mobility hoard resources on lands & their masses nation-states inscribe shapes sites of possible violence site of possibility & violence borderlands no man’s land no matter how thin there’s space between edges of every line liminal delineating an us & them walls permeable with permission apparently static but variable imagined boundaries binding insecurity us who chose to number & document and why name & categorize this way sunday at peace bridge border re-entry i recall signs on entering new york state stating all plants all animals fruits & vegetables must be declared this makes it seem like pigeons & dandelion spores require passports but animals & plants are stateless even canada geese which ruler divides us who sat with ruler compass protractor this coast here this body of water mountains raised by convergence of plates tree lines razed by forest fires earth has her own divisions warm orange crescent smirks shining on our imaginary line of a border she knows of true crossing transformation they create artificial marks to carve order restructure restrict nature confine each other post-questioning border agent says welcome home my smirk matches the moon ruin-reading
for eren, anne-sophie & ana
to the lives, lands & homes lost to social disaster & those that survive them “becoming a ruin-reader might not be so bad a thing. it could in fact save your life.” - junot díaz, apocalypse i. it’s not natural to move this way not here places on the way places dry climate control hum breathe shallow musty-stale air & stark white fluorescent light muted grey bus stations branded airport terminals uniform departure gates & matte black tarmac moving train cars pressurized plane cabins where do diasporic souls lay to rest? ii. bangladesh hastens to build rampal coal power plant accelerate global warming when each monsoon brings floods decimate sundarbans mangrove forests nature’s best protection from tsunamis iii. my world clock set to eight different cities updates through whatsapp & imessage before cell towers or wifi we had landlines & letters forged family over delay & echo static crack pop buzz flat vocal monotone translucent pale blue or white airmail envelopes bordered by red & blue parallelograms contain notes & photographs named dated on back in ballpoint pen & embellished colonial handwriting forever fixed in time like film stills of my memory iv. mid-night phone calls mean somebody died sounds of that triple long distance ring at odd hours still give me pause v. in a long distance relationship with destruction suspended awaiting news across time zones borders may as well mark limits of care alone in our worries fibre optic cables & power lines have nothing on planned systematic decay more black & brown people become ruin-readers squinting past longitude & latitude as our families pay every price neil smith warned there is no such thing as a natural disaster it’s not natural to move this way |
TINA ZAFREEN ALAM is a diasporic Bangladeshi poet who happens to reside in Tkaronto. She is a VONA (Voices of Our Nation Arts Foundation) and Winter Tangerine Workshop alum, a blog editor at Shameless Magazine and has work published in The Peak Magazine, From the Root Zine and LooseLeaf Magazine. When she is not writing, she is communing with squirrels in the park or looking at pictures of her niece and nephew, Amaya and Ducky.
