Alan Semerdjian: HAJEES for Artsakh

For the part of me I cannot name.
For the willing to remain unbroken

like a bridge to across the world.
For the almost hal, the openings

in my mother’s breath when heart
races into unfolding new territory.

Hal chuneem, she would say. I have
no—what was it? Strength? Soul?

For the sound of the word uttered
makes the air softer, land holier.

For the imprints that never vanish.
For all that does and never returns.

For the silences that can please
like a parachute led down the sky

and the silences that bleed rivers
turning history’s forgotten pages.

For in every direction, a hundred
nights without light or warmth.

For on every map the confusion,
each home an orphanage of huddles.

There is an arm broken and torn
off the torso and flung next door.

Please, understand, it means no
harm. It just wants to bury itself

and become the garden you and I
can only tend together. Please,

for the road upon which we live,
for the part of us that is still alive.

This poem was published in the Summer 2024 issue of MIZNA