Of Aleppo’s Zip Code
for the little suns setting in Aleppo

“son, before you left
we still had memories
of me boring you with a botched English line:
“the most dark side of night
is the hour just to dawn”
before your belly let out those bloodied squirts
as that shrapnel made a hole off you
now that bloodied line is a malignant cell
that hurts my brain.
can you see from wherever, that
of what was our city
only the zip code is left
and it’s shape somewhere on Google maps
the name has died on our lips
it’s letters splintered about us
on broken signboards
with black-burned edges
the images our memories hold on to are
of rubbles grating the soles of our feet
of the blurred lines between
our blind dusty dives for cover
from poorly camouflaged hawks
and our lifeless gaspy grasps for crumbs
dropping from the beaks of red-crossed planes.
here, humanity’s light, it’s sight, quietly dimmed
even before we lost our own light
so if you could see here son, you’d already know
that the night here is no less brighter than the day.”


Obor, Chinaecherem Michael writes from Nsukka where he is a final year student of English and Literary Studies/History and International Studies at University of Nigeria. He does poetry and fiction and is the Prose Editor for Muse 45, A Journal of Creative and Critical Writing, English and Literary Studies Department UNN. Michael writes to express and feel human but besides that, he plays PES and FIFA on PlayStation. He blogs at chinaecheremmichael.wordpress.com.

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