Thursday, February 22
HISTORY OF HURTS The man I love was killed, my mother declared in the kitchen as she drained milk. She shut her eyes until the darkness exploded like he did, when he left her on her back, after he beat her before he made love to her, like thunder crushing a mountain village. She wondered if love is a revolt. She didn’t understand yet how nations work, how they drag your scars through dirt roads, until they are all you have to hold you up. (Nathalie Handal)