Scorpion

2024 9th - 12th Grade Poetry Winner

The point of a pen opens a hole
Into a soul’s dereliction. This search
For the right word bores through stone.
— “Smoking the Bible” (Chris Abani)

the scorpion arches its back and
thrashes a barbed tail threateningly
as the boy pokes it teasingly with a stick.

thick chinks along its coiled length poise,
nostrils flare & a miniscule array of
pearly-white gnashers clacks menacingly
as the sky settles to a dirty fish bowl gray.

a man, somewhere, slices a half-moon crescent
of a ripe tomato—its flesh scarred by pickup trucks
& shards of wooden crates—cuts it neatly into regret.
an immigrant, proudly castigated by pungent spices
in another’s cooking thinks they embrace the bland & unforgiving,
here in america.

he awakens to another frigid november morning,
where the ice raises its hackles in the lobby of the apartment complex &
musters faith in braised goat, tender lamb & mouthfuls of hot rice,
peels an easy-to-peel clementine. The belligerent pulp & roughly sweet aftertaste
raise an influx of memories; Luxor market at midday, the cresting wave of sand dunes coupled with
the heavy footfalls of tourists (mastigators of the land),
warm brown eyes & a familiar tongue & hand in his.

mourn only what you must;
you can only swaddle your regret & pain & dread
you can only halt your smile for a microsecond
you can only write the words on the pages as we teach you
you can only speak an unfamiliar tongue now
you can only look your mother in the eye once more.

the persistent aftertaste of a lost home
lingers in his mouth.

he replaces his prayer mat with the gold threading & plum dye,
keeps the Quran passed down by his grandfather,
lights frankincense & myrrh for cleansing despite the
neighbor’s derisive complaints of a “foreign smell”
kneels in supplication
and opens his palms to the chink of light in the window.