Last Word About The Polls -- Mubarak Said

Anything I start to love 

hates me. My vote is one of them. 

& any home that belongs to me 

disowns me. My father's home too. 

It mocks me, I can't read a change.

Because any letter in my memory

fades, my name too. And just like that, 

it rains whenever I follow the queue 

to cast another vote.

On the election day, I watched TV,

looking for the headline reading: 

how the sun bakes bread. & I saw 

a woman that gave an asylum to 

national anthem driving crowd of voters

to the arena where the sun eats 

a fleshy face. & I slept on the bed

lamenting that my hand refused to vote.

Today, heartbreak is blasphemy. 

Any time I remember my right 

the innocence leaves me. I'm a saint.

& the day I read the constitution is the day

of my death. I believe when I die,

I might be born soon.

& still, someone might tell me

my vote is used to mourn for sanctity.

I decided not to write for the sun again. But I asked my hand to build 

a life inside a basket of this country. 

& today, any poem I long to write

rhymes with a song written at the 

back of a ballot paper.