Written by Amy El Zayaty

Photo credit: Miguel Vidal

They call to me from below,

Or above,

I am not sure.

But they call to me, this much I can tell.

In the various forms in which I exist,

None of which are favorable.


If I decay six feet under,

My bones remain but I am empty,


Cold– very cold.


My remains have given way into the earth,

(You pray to your God and murmur under your breath),

And I now nourish the one more cry, whimper, meow, and bark that came into this world just moments after I left it.

(That you hope I am having a good day)

I have given back the hurt I caused in the shape of love.

-I am not, I cannot feel the days, but I feed to yours-

I pray to my God and murmur under my breath,

That I hope you are having a good day.


If I am ashes,

Weighing eight pounds,

I will be devoured until I am eight ounces.

-You cried because I was no longer whole-

Broken, blown



And Christ, Moses, and Mohammed said that my soul would cease to exist with the ignition of flames.

And for a day, you believed it, and started to feel bad every night when the clock struck ’00.

We both know I was on the other side, and we both know that you wouldn’t have seen me on this day at this time.

But I cannot blame you, kid

I am older and I am wiser and I understand that you are human.

I too, did not know of all the merciless holes I had in this body,

Until what filled them starved and dissipated.


-Bury, bury, six feet under-

But it is cold here in the lonesome, crowded Midwest

(You pray to your God and murmur under your breath)

And maybe the fact that I was broken, blown, and burned

Is now an excuse to keep me warm.

(That you hope I am having a good day).


We are saddened when we hear you speak to us,

Because we can hear you.

We feel neither good days, nor bad,

All we feel is the words which you speak to us.

You hold the hurt, and you begin to feel so hot in a world that feels so cold.

But we want you to know things are not so.

Because we can hear, we can see

And when all we can hear is your heaving chests between murmuring words to your God

And all we can see is your red, blubbering faces with a delicate hand on the rose,

We pray to our God and murmur under our breaths,

That we hope you have better days.