Conflict
Muhamed watches his son stretch his right hand to fill in as many bullet holes
in the wall as he can. His son asks, “Is this the one that hit you?”
Muhamed folds his arms, shakes his head; he does not care to know.
Muhamed’s father forbade washing away the blood stain on the floor
next to the sink in the kitchen. His wife steps over it to reach for a dish.
His son crawls across it. His daughter outlined it in permanent marker.
“I want to keep it from leaking, Father.” She answered when he asked why.
When Muhamed’s father leaves the house, Muhamed moves the kitchen rug
over the stain. He steps on it, holds himself there.
His daughter asks why. “To absorb my brother’s memory.”
But to himself, he says, to prove it doesn’t mean anything.
His right index finger can fit into the groove of the scar on his left arm.
It feels like the time he jumped into the mine,
not knowing how deep. He watches his wife
wash the dishes. She never talks about his missing brother.
But at night, she fits her tongue into his scar, licks the edges.
“This is why I love you,” she whispers though he never asks.
He hates the feel of her mouth on his arm.
He has learned to bridle his tongue.