A lesson in uprooting
I trace a line from belly button
downwards where
blood had trailed out, non-stop,
for two nights
staining the sheets into a map
of unmooring and unmothering.
My fingers gritty and damp from saltwater and sand.
Here lies the deafening screams of a child, lost,
who in her second life,
found her voice on the floor of Charon’s boat.
I trailed the map’s intentions across waters,
swimming beyond the stretches of lungs and limbs,
washing up onto a threshold unlike any other.
A mountain, a tree, and the sea,
arranging themselves to split light and dark -
day and night, land and water,
you and I - into an island the shape of our shadows.
This place where everything in between
held itself accountable to the drumming
of the past’s anxious hearts.
Each breath a test of will against memory.
Each breath a necessity for continuity
as the fire beneath the mountain surpassed itself.
From history,
the umbilical cord that held everything in place
ripped apart the centrepoint,
an open wound that scars for generations. A separation.
An eruption occurs
in the time it takes to remember
everything at once.
In the debris of all the things that happened,
I lay my head to rest on this smouldering
Earth, still throbbing with ancestors.
A shedding ritual,
these old roots my shoulders carried for years
sizzle heavily against
volcanic aftermath, frying into
ash. On the other side of this story,
palm fronds wave in the sky
beckoning the hot breath of madness to pass.
Here lies the ending of the child, recurring again
and again in the decay of her body, which for her final life,
she left behind to grow a tree.
downwards where
blood had trailed out, non-stop,
for two nights
staining the sheets into a map
of unmooring and unmothering.
My fingers gritty and damp from saltwater and sand.
Here lies the deafening screams of a child, lost,
who in her second life,
found her voice on the floor of Charon’s boat.
I trailed the map’s intentions across waters,
swimming beyond the stretches of lungs and limbs,
washing up onto a threshold unlike any other.
A mountain, a tree, and the sea,
arranging themselves to split light and dark -
day and night, land and water,
you and I - into an island the shape of our shadows.
This place where everything in between
held itself accountable to the drumming
of the past’s anxious hearts.
Each breath a test of will against memory.
Each breath a necessity for continuity
as the fire beneath the mountain surpassed itself.
From history,
the umbilical cord that held everything in place
ripped apart the centrepoint,
an open wound that scars for generations. A separation.
An eruption occurs
in the time it takes to remember
everything at once.
In the debris of all the things that happened,
I lay my head to rest on this smouldering
Earth, still throbbing with ancestors.
A shedding ritual,
these old roots my shoulders carried for years
sizzle heavily against
volcanic aftermath, frying into
ash. On the other side of this story,
palm fronds wave in the sky
beckoning the hot breath of madness to pass.
Here lies the ending of the child, recurring again
and again in the decay of her body, which for her final life,
she left behind to grow a tree.
Dhiyanah Hassan is an artist and writer whose works look at the importance of personal narratives, particularly in the context of healing. She has made artwork for recent Southeast Asian books and her poetry has appeared in Burning House Press and Rambutan Literary. You can find her on Instagram and Twitter (@byDhiyanah) or her website.