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    DEAR GOD. DEAR BONES. DEAR YELLOW.
    DEAR GOD. DEAR BONES. DEAR YELLOW.
    DEAR GOD. DEAR BONES. DEAR YELLOW.
    Ebook85 pages37 minutes

    DEAR GOD. DEAR BONES. DEAR YELLOW.

    By Noor Hindi

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    About this ebook

    What is political poetry? How does history become lived experience? What does it mean to bear witness through writing?

    Noor Hindi’s poems explore colonialism, religion, patriarchy and everything in between with sharp wit and innovative precision. Layered to reflect the intersections of her identity, while constantly interrogating this identity itself, her writing combines lyrical beauty with political urgency.

    This collection is ultimately a provocation―on trauma, on art, on what it takes to change the world.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherHaymarket Books
    Release dateMay 31, 2022
    ISBN9781642597233
    DEAR GOD. DEAR BONES. DEAR YELLOW.

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      Book preview

      DEAR GOD. DEAR BONES. DEAR YELLOW. - Noor Hindi

      I.

      Self-Interrogation

      At the airport terminal, a woman is crying.

      Excuse me. Excuse me. Excuse me, I—

      Need to focus. On something besides.

      The rush of migration. Lights so loud.

      The unending sound. Of a newscaster’s voice.

      Dear God. Dear Bones. Dear Mother. Please, forgive

      me. I want to call in dead. Last week,

      there was a child in a yellow dress reading a poem.

      For minutes on end, I could not be indifferent

      to anything. Not the grass, dying yellow.

      Not the bombs, twisting limbs.

      Not the cages. Not the—Yes. There is a woman crying

      at terminal six. Yes, I use a newspaper

      to cover my eyes. Yes, I think of the child.

      The tiny silver heart she placed in my palm.

      How I threw it in the trash, seconds later.

      But I promise. I promise. I promise. I—

      meant it as an act of survival. Maybe love.

      Thirst

      Amman was a broken

      railing I tried to lean on

      and the Athan was a song

      I tried and tried to love. That summer,

      I was little and terrified

      of God, my lust hanging

      from the roots of my hair.

      What did I know of the thirst

      that moved at the speed

      of fingers exploring a body

      I wanted to be mine? I remember

      my grandmother

      tapping her feet during iftar, say al-Hamdillah,

      say I am thankful

      for this sunlight, this sorrow,

      this summer, which is endless

      and tastes like heat. After iftar,

      I would hold her hand, let her guide

      me to the women’s mosque,

      where dirt lined

      the soles of their feet;

      their hands clutched prayer

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