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7. Hassan Abdulrazzak: A Selection
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79 7 Hassan Abdulrazzak A Selection Shadow of Their Former Selves My mother was a beauty queen. You would not know this if you stared At the dark folded rugs under my eyes Or observed the puffed pastry of my face Rising and falling as I breathe. Good genes skip a generation as if it was rope. She was young and beautiful still when The men came knocking on the door Of our Baghdad mansion. These were early days and discretion Had not yet been cast to the wind. So the men crept up to the door Like the abundant beetles that patrolled Our garden in spring. Father was whisked off in a black Mercedes, Through a night hole hastily sprung, Emerging on the other side to the warmth Of an interrogation cell. He returned in the morning, A man transformed; A Ulysses that had conversed with the dead About the nature of death; 80 Hassan Abdulrazzak About the easy access the government provided To the realms of death. The stench of it smeared his clothes. Years passed as we hopped; A family of frogs crossing continents. Until we found ourselves marooned On the grey island, west of France. They were no longer young. Time had blown away most of my father’s hair, Leaving strands in every country we bucked. Mother began to buy henna in bulk. Their PhDs hang on the wall In frames where summer spiders Weave their webs. Age has loosened their bones, Placed a cough in both chests, Transformed them into shadows of their former selves. Worst still, Are the shadows their former selves have cast On their late afternoon, Leaving them wondering what might have been With a fairer hand. My mother is a beauty queen no more. To my mind she is queen of the rough sea. Having taught me (through action, not words) That all you can do is build The best boat you can Then pitch it against the storm, Till the final wave (snapping the wire, switching to darkness) Takes you home. [3.140.185.170] Project MUSE (2024-04-17 06:26 GMT) A Selection 81 Transgenic I. It looks like any other white mouse, Small, agile, restless With rough whiskers mapping the room, Feeling for danger. Unlike other mice chance conjured Into existence, Its genetic archive has been tampered with. Nothing now can restore default. The change is subtle; in need of water mazes And complex puzzles to unravel. The change is subtle but there nevertheless. II. The room is stuffed With the smell of straw and food pellets. He looks through the cage bars and ponders the meaning Of the latest maze result, Picks up the mouse by the tail And remembers the picture they sent him of his brother, Hanging upside down, chest decorated with medals Pinned to his skin. That was another country, another time. Torture here is more subtle. The mouse drops into the white box The clear lid is shut. It must be clear. How else can you tell when it’s dead? Did he gasp? Did his mouth fill with terror? Did he urinate on himself like this mouse 82 Hassan Abdulrazzak (who has to die for the sake of others)? Did the soldiers snap his neck afterwards To ensure complete death Or did they leave him huddled in the corner, Sliding on a pain sledge into oblivion? ...