This evening,
No one looks like me.
I put my heart into the fridge,
My eyes into the shoe closet.
I left my fingers yonder on the door handle.
This evening
No one looks like me
I set on the edge of my silence
Chew what is left of the news
Ask the lady announcer to become sexier
When numbering today's victims;
Her excitement is a surplus femininity
Messing with the awe of death.
This evening,
No one looks like me.
And the knife slitting my neck from behind
Feels as soft as the collar of my shirt.
One
Single
Unique
Solo
I am this evening
And no one looks like me
Except
The twenty-three million Syrians
Who write this same poem
Even now.