Dikra Ridha's "Ordinary Evening"

Iraqi-British poet Dikra Ridha has an MA in creative writing from Bath Spa University; I'm proud to say she was my student. Here is a sample poem from her first pamphlet, There Are No Americans in Baghdad's Bird Market, published this month by Tall Lighthouse.

Ordinary Evening

The sound of a small spoon stirring cardamom tea clings

to the walls. When a hijacker in a filthy helmet opens

the door with a weapon you don't know, you become

an insect in your own home. Incapable of rushing,

unable to scream. You shiver, shake, welter

in the shell of your house. The second he steps

over your slippers and night gown, your smell changes.

A new sweat shields your body, limpid--foreseeing

the end of your prosperity; you existed a moment ago,

five thousand years ago, and diminishing. The hijacker

silences chatter in your ears and blackens the light

in your eyes. You're not dead yet but sure your death

is approaching. Afraid to blink for the weight of this belt,

you choose patience. He checks you out with his boots,

the foetus curl; your last security. He prods, knocks

you over; you fall to your side. He curses at you then turns

and roars his head to the ceiling and laps up your sky.

He takes the water from your bones. Your gold

ring is in his stomach. But wait. Wait.

Dikra Ridha

To order a copy of There Are No Americans in Baghdad's Bird Market, please order it from the publisher here.