In the span of eighteen poems, Hiwot addresses domestic and divine loves, along with the conscious and unconscious violences we often commit in their pursuit.
"My love refuses to be turned in on me like a sword./I say Love so much it means nothing./ I ponder Love so often I can no longer think." I finished this book rapidly, simply because I could not stand to feel so vulnerable in public, but I refused to put it down because not finishing did not feel like an option. Four words are ringing in my head now: you are not alone. This book has left me breathless, it has made me feel so seen to the point that it feels painful. I feel tender and raw, and it's difficult to process, but in the best of ways.
“No offense to God, but every thing my mother prayed I wouldn't be, I became. Every place she prayed I wouldn't go, I went. I walked so long I found Mercy. I draped her thighs over my shoulders & drank. She's abundant & I'm finally alive. Had I been what I was supposed to be I'd be my mother's safehouse. I'd be her mother land. I wouldn't wander, I would remain. Were I from whence I ought to be from I'd call this something else but I belong to the country I was born in. Everything I've done has been in Love's name & in Love's name I've done these sins: I've clenched my fist. I've run. I've bit my tongue dead raw. Mihret covers my chest while I hum & swallow blood. She keeps me warm. Doesn't ask for me to stay.” 🥺🥺🥺
I read each poem and then reread it immediately, savoring each line break, chewing each word. I immediately want to reread the entire collection again. I want to hear it read aloud. This collection is worthy of your attention, with a unique and universal voice. Highly recommended.