House
In Rudi Suliman’s poem, memories of a house, the people who once lived there, and the events of the war are brought back to life. The loss is not only of a place, but of a home that holds history, safety, and a sense of belonging.
Awaken our childhood at seven;
Lay out the morning meal before a quarter to Mother.
Lay a gentle hand upon the shoulder of a door
whose lock has long been lost:
Open it to the sun,
and weep not for distant stones.
Let the attic become the bundle of our secrets.
O our house,
O home:
There are words within my heart,
and within yours, a melody.
Let us sing our covenant into a song
no storm can ever shake.
O our house,
O home:
Let me hear a gentle humming.
Do not be harsh with hearts that grew within you,
fell asleep between your ribs,
loved,
rejoiced,
and grieved;
that laughed with peals no ears but your walls ever heard.
Their whispers were a melody woven into your own.
O our house,
O home:
Stand fast, do not forsake us!
For how, upon this earth,
could we ever dig a grave
vast enough to hold all your walls?
