because the number ‘8’ is meant

to be holy as God intended

it was supposed to be the longest

season of rain but the air was thinning

from the dry heat — the grounds all

shaken by the recession knocking

houses off the hands of their mothers

one by one they were left out to dry

to adjust — as if they were succulents

or camels waiting to be picked up

and nurtured by the hands that bought them

 

and even though we were foreclosed

several times that year — we were lucky

enough to be foreclosed several times that

year — to have houses to fall back on like

the three little pigs — little did we know of

the ending to that tale — the big bad wolf

hires a ruthless bull to do the dirty work

for him (he made his profit from straws and sticks)

still, we were lucky to sleep on laminate floors

instead of the simmering concrete — we were

lucky to have a sardine family — tiny and

compact to be able to fit in our last house

standing on Miranda street

 

until one morning — before the sun got

the chance to lower its gaze — an army of

navy blue jackets kicked open our door —

to myself (still half-asleep) I was thinking

the audacity to enter my bedroom — the first

room — I mean the living room where my

sisters and I covered the floors with white

cotton duvets and pillows — we created a

heaven for our backs to adjust yet the officer

insisted on declaring his presence by kicking

my shoulder and urging us to leave — the audacity

to raid on my holy haven — I looked up until my

eyes rolled all the way to the back of my mind —

I was trying to go back to sleep — to re-enter my

dreams for that was all I had.

​

​

(c)2019 by Mehrnaz Sokhansanj