Argentina by Isabelle Ghaneh

The mothers of the disappeared live in shadows
They can’t see their stubby swollen fingers in the mirror anymore
They can’t eat or drink or wash themselves
Without seeing ashes sprouting out of their eyes mouths armpits
They are cattle grazing on sawdust
Once again, they look outside in the fields
Waiting for the local trash collector
To serve them up some dinner
Borges knows what its like to talk to yourself
Sitting on a public bench by the river
By the river I lay down and wept
Or so the psalmist said
But he never sat down and chatted for awhile
Maybe he should have
I wonder if the mothers of the disappeared are still standing there
After all this time
Have they ever collected the bright bones of their children
Or have they all been given to the dogs
So they have something to nibble on
Late at night
Julio Cortazar I love you
And Ernesto Sabato and Jorge Luis Borges
You come to me always
And lead the way
Out of the labyrinth
Or at least if that’s saying too much
You let me know
I am not the only one
Resting there
God bless the mothers of the disappeared
No one else does
So maybe He will
It’s about time
If you ask me

About the Author

Isabelle Ghaneh has been published in various literary venues, including Coal City Review, Pennine Ink and Dimsum Literary Journal.

Related posts: