Tag: armenian

sometimes my heart takes me
to the walled courtyards of the Old City
to the streets where my նենե (grandmother)
laughed and played
and carved her initials into stone

sometimes it calls me to
sandstone cities
and undulating deserts
where my ancestors fled and
where the mosque’s 
haunting prayers stir
my sleeping soul

sometimes i hear
the melancholy songs of
my mother tongue
and i long to stand on the հող (dirt)
half of my being was formed from,
to dig my toes into my
roots

sometimes i’m drawn towards
places i do not know, but
that i hear calling me

but louder than the voices
echoing in ancient monasteries
and stronger than the force of
my meandering spirit
is the pull to you 

you are where I ache to go back to

you are my home // a.s.m

the Turkish coffee cup
shards on the floor 
draw blood. 

that delicate porcelain 
holds eighty-two years of life,
wrinkled hands, cardamom
coffee-stained
smiles and desert air;
a shattered mirage on
hard, cold kitchen
tile.

a thousand fangs,
they draw blood and make
home in the soles
of my feet.

cardamom coffee // a.s.m

i can feel
the drums in my pulse. 
i miss the warmth
of the sun while it rains,
and the smell of
Armani cologne and sweat.
the way we’d all slide in
the back of the car with
no seat belts,
the leather sticking
to the backs of my thighs. the heat.
pulling mulberries off of
the trees in the yard and making
tracks on the tile
when we’d come in for dinner.
our four beds pushed together.
whispering in darkness.
throwing cheese
to the street dogs and cats.
being free to be 
a child. getting lost. wandering
too far.

հայաստան: Armenia // a.s.m

I. this turkey is testing
my patience and
i’m not sure how
many more times i can hear 
people ask me what i’ve done with my hair
before i burn
out. 

II. 21 years ago, you thought 
you ate too much stuffing. but
instead of indigestion,
you ended up in a hospital room. 
you said it felt like i was tearing 
you apart. i was tearing you apart 
from the inside the second
i knew i wanted out. 

III. you buy me a traditional
Armenian dress, mistaking my wince
for a smile. so i try it on for you all
the while wanting to unroll my tongue:
to explain that though i know i am
yours in my bones and my blood
and the color of my eyes,
i am also myself and i don’t quite know
where i belong amongst
antiquated pronouns because
i am not quite ‘she’ nor ‘he,’
but nothing in between exists
to my mother
tongue. 

IV. the headdress doesn’t quite fit
under my locs.
‘what a shame’ you say
‘what a shame.’ 

V. My tongue is on fire and
every word i learned in
Armenian Saturday school is being
burnt off
with my taste buds.

when being yourself feels wrong to your culture // a.s.m

4/24/1915

i think I was born with
the taste of their blood in my mouth;
their story intertwined with mine 
long before i was old enough
to start writing it.

the word genocide 
passed down through generations–
an unwanted inheritance
laying heavy on our lips and 
etched into the lines on
our palms. 

a word small enough to hold
in the palms of your
hands holds the history
of a nation.
a word comprised of the lives
of 1.5 million, written in sets of
footprints in desert sands.

we are a people defined
by genocide. 
we are the generations born
from the blood spilled before
us– a people who will fight to
have their history
bloom bloody red 
with a stem of thorns. 

their battle, 
their blood, their lives 
are now ours. 
There is no their. 
We are our.