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Blue Marble Review

Literary Journal for Young Writers

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Taht (Throne)

By H.B. Ackan

My grandmother’s hands bear the rough soil of the harvest while

Working her fingers around the yarn, piercing

Beads of dried peas and bent rose petals as she makes her

Last granddaughter’s holy crown.

And on the stove sits a steaming pot of dolma nearby:

A baker’s dozen she made with those rough hands,

Spooning the seeds out the fat red bell peppers

Carving lids of their popping stems

 

Old men hunched

On their old backs,

Tired of their old scarlet blood.

 

My grandmother’s lips bear

The sweet songs of lore that

Sing of legends in the village house, muttering

The sorrows of men as she creates her

Last granddaughter’s divine scepter of tears and tales.

And on the stool lays the Quran,

Her deepest companion, which passed from her mother,

Who, with her delicate fingers and the blessings of God,

Wrote every slipping letter

 

Twisting tongues

That have whispered the words of Allah

For a thousand years, and will a thousand more.

My grandmother’s heavy heart bears

The thick fluid with which I am kin,

Kin with the mad men who stormed through

The rolling plains of the Orient,

With striding horses pummeling the ground under their gate,

Their wooden bows hanging in slow, piercing silence

 

Blood that fought to

Place each hunted bone

On my sacred throne.

 

 

 

H.B. Akcan currently attends the Global Studies Academy of Clements High School. She is an avid reader, writer, and binge-watcher. Her work has been recognized by the Columbia College’s National Young Authors Contest and she has submitted her literature portfolio for the Davidson Fellowship.

 

 

Filed Under: Poetry Tagged With: Issue Two

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