Shadi Eskandani

i scrub my hands crimson,
this compulsion to cleanse
from invaders and
sin soaking in
my skin –
a violence
not (always) my own.

years ago, taken
to land taken –

(un)settled

at the edges of humanity,
where microbes and tyrants
breed extinction,
breathe death.

they say, cover your mouth for protection!
yet this silence –
harrowing,
swallowing us whole.

what is healing when safekeeping is not promised?

in these ruthless times,
i wash my immigrant hands
raw –
a ritual for safety
against
viruses of all forms.