the Hand of
my Mother, what would the Desert be?
would all the Rest of You just Flee?
are not made for Us; we float, face
down in water, bodies
swollen with words unsaid, un-
wanted, with arched white spines
wobbling on the surface, peering at the sky.
Hatred is a word for the
Unknown; for when
think just like
I am (a)
(h) U ma n,
Caterina Domeneghini is studying for a DPhil in English Literature at Wolfson College, Oxford