mistranslationBy Alysha Mohamed
i am your butchered last name. the bone that splits when you beat your chest.
i only speak arabic when i pray. i don’t even know how to say hello in the language of god. my alter ego unravels herself as my tongue traces hidden ridges in my mouth, as my forehead sinks into a beige carpet and i remember i have a soul. you are not the first to call me heartless. i have heard it in whispers. felt it echo in moonlit confessions, in the way lovers have turned away from me in bed, leaving me with only a sharp shoulder blade to try and rest my cheek against. every woman i know has been mistranslated — some words can’t cross a border without losing their meaning. i imagine being eclipsed and remember it is better to be spat at than consumed. when i am alone, i hear the thrum of blood pumping against my shirt. i feel my mother and grandmother wrap their arms around me until we are all chest to chest, the mirrors of our hearts beating in sync, as unending as the ocean lapping the shore; her gaping mouth, dribbling white foam, pouring surahs into the sky. Alysha Mohamed is a passionate poet, playwright, and journalist. She graduated from Queen's University in 2022 with a Bachelor of Arts (Honours) in English and Political Studies. Her poems are published or forthcoming in Arc Poetry Magazine, untethered magazine, and The Capilano Review, and her articles have been published in outlets including CBC and Maclean's. She loves poems that burn, heal, and subvert all at once.
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