October 10, 2024

Now, for the Weather

by Aurielle Marie

We are honored to publish Aurielle Marie’s “Now, for the Weather,” published as part of Mizna 25.1: Catastrophe Issue.

here: here: here: here: take what I have in exchange
(but what do I have?) just this:

—Aurielle Marie

Now, for the Weather

Before that she flips the hair over her shoulder
says they are storing the dead in ice cream trucks and 
every violence has been like this, an innocent image gutted 
A thousand pairs of feet, bloody 
beating a path in the dirt in the name
of a freedom we have never known 

For six months this year alone
I march my body in circles
in search of it, trying to create distance between
| the people I love| and |the men who built a killing field
in Weelaunee forest
martyred our brother for opposing it
then blamed his death on the trees| 

while tortuguita’s body bloomed with 60 places for air to escape
the State made quick work of mythmaking—first it was
only 14 shots then they wonder if it was just one errant bullet
volleying between the wood as if an accident
finally, we just fired 57, only 57
The evening pundits speculate that maybe
Manuel Esteban Paez Terán shot all those guns at themself, by themself

so when a so-called-news woman 
tells me (on behalf of Israel) that Hamas was under
the bridge so they burned the bridge or Hamas was driving
the car so they must bullet the car
or cry there! Hamas there! underneath
the bed! where seven toddlers are sleeping before leveling
the last standing hospital, I know I am again meeting a State at its splintering 

my sister, on the phone as we sit vigil, weeps 
when she realizes she has
been speaking to me in Arabic
her mouth beseeching god
in a language it can name its fears by 
I have not prayed since Ferguson. 
Tonight, I tell her, I must try 

every violence is like this, a wail escaping my mouth like a lost tongue
prayers segregated from the dialect that birthed it and each god I meet
allows horrors done in his name 

Maybe if it ever ended, the summers of
death cooling into autumns of disappearance, bodies piling like leaves. . . 

If there was ever any reprieve I wouldn’t be
            so angry,
                            so exhausted
                                                  so willing to become
                                                                       what my enemy says I am
                                                                                           so I might (finally) end him
                                                                                                             if that ending wouldn’t be
                                                                                                                                the start of another so-called war
                                                                                                                                with only one side

                                                                                           But that is a lone prayer unanswered

                                                 this world is what it is
                           And justice is a poem
           that has hung me too often
across where the line breaks

Inaction is
not my birthright,
is  not my job is 
not, even now, my choice 
But what to do with the impenetrable loss?? 
                               what to do about the damned weather, 
                               mundane and always having some little fit 
                               shifting to satisfy the tide or eat away at the land 
The seasons change lalalala 
And from behind the clouds, a fighter jet
Simple and regular, so the state tells me 

No. No. 
No. No. 
No. No. 
No. My god, my heart
                                  no. every violence wants me 
                                  to remove the humanity from my blood 
                                  so politicians and corporations 
                                  can devour me
& like the man driving an ambulance
full of the nearly-but-not-yet-martyred
through his ruined city on my phone’s blue screen,
I refuse to be consumed anymore than I might already have been

I don’t know what kind of human absolves themself to the end
of a world but habibi, I too count children and the seconds
between the dead falling from where they once were
to where they’ll never move from again 
and so how, on a night spilling saffron and sorrow
could I not sit vigil, useless though I may be 
against the mortar and phosphorus and soldiers—God 
what meaning are we to make of a world where the poem is only a container
for the despair that would consume me if I 
didn’t have a line to break or a pitiful lil
image to make meaning of, to give my hands something to fucking—

END IT ALL, GOD! 
end the whole damn twisted mess! but save the sliver of land between the river and the sea! I demand!
bring back the children and mothers and the uncles, the beloved queer librarian, GET TO IT! the doctor
who stayed when they told him to leave SEE TO IT! the people bleeding, waiting, not gone yet beneath
homes older than a fraud State. find the pregnant nail technician GET TO IT! the teenager who was, RIGHT NOW, in flight school AND MAKE IT SO
return them all I REQUIRE IT 
yes give back breath to even 
the men who did a hard thing in a desert 
in the name of possibility ESPECIALLY THEM! ESPECIALLY! 
GLORY TO THE WAY-MAKERS! 

here: here: here: here: take what I have in exchange 
(but what do I have?) just this: 

In 2014, one of us was slaughtered every 28 hours and I could have murdered every white pig with my rage from Gaza, from beneath another nakba, a girl my age shows me how to cool the tear gas from my eyes how pebbles
can disarm goliath, how to run sideways when they weaponize noise with their machines and—I survived.
she must have, too. she is alive, that girl. please?
she must be. if in my mouth. no—our mouth. let it be so. asé o.

Gaza you are not mine, but you are mine 
we, a minefield, beloved and belonging 
I am here I am here I am here I am here I am here I 
I with you I with you I with you I with you, with you 
how dare I feel so alone this little room 
not in pieces my hands clasped together my 
one crooked tooth drawing blood from a chasm it has ushered unto my lip, and I apologize
that I am so whole otherwise, disabled by old wars in mundane ways, considering 

Beyond these empires
Beyond a storm’s swift chest 
there is another world (if only the poem could build it mo’ quicker, beloveds)
lemme use my hands lemme use my guns 
lemme use our body, our useless money 
Our sex our scum our spit, the fires we stoke

beyond these empires there is another world 
And
I am running—finally!—toward one 
in which we only know how cold the night 
is because we gathered in it 
our death absent 
our joy as ordinary, as the changing 
of breeze a young sun 
none of our aliveness coming to an end 
                                  this poem breathing on and 
                                  on and on until 
                                  you meet me 
                                  there 

Aurielle Marie is an acclaimed poet, essayist, and storyteller. The author of Gumbo Ya Ya (University of Pittsburgh Press, 2021) and winner of the 2021 Furious Flower Prize, the 2020 Cave Canem Poetry Prize, and the 2022 Georgia Author of the Year, Marie lives in Atlanta, Georgia, on unceded Muskogee land.

Toward a Free Palestine: Resources to Learn About and Act for Palestine

We are proud to present this text as part of a list of resources to take action for and learn about Palestine, as well as works by Palestinian artists, writers, activists, and cultural workers.