Neïla Czermak Ichti

The Angels on the Left Shoulder
A text by Maymouna Baradji, artist and poet

He said, “Watch out, blood’s going to spill onto the paper—catch the drop.”

Where else should I put it if not here?

I’m not afraid of horror movies anymore, once I unlock the padlock inside me. When the monsters from the stories come to curl up inside me, bandage their wounds, tear off the costumes sewn right into the flesh. When they tell me about life before black-and-white movies.

Listen, there’s a thorn going up there under your foot.

From the source, a geyser of blood flows, its ink spreads, splashing everything in its path.

The jeans are stained black.

So are the fingertips.

The poison creeps up the leg, the heart rate quickens.

Neither tears nor screams can counteract its chemistry.

The body heats up.

Breath still coming in gasps, uneven.

And then the metal wings tearing the skin on the back.

The blood has already soaked into them, but they struggle, stretching along the back, bent with spasms.

The darkened gaze can barely make out the distance.

And that thorn blocking the foot that keeps growing, feeding on you.

There was no more room on the walls for words, so we swallowed them.

I saw hands clasped, outstretched, gathering into clusters, then feathers, then wings.

Hands of iron, water, blood, and ink— yours, then mine.

There is her and him and the others.

I recognize the wrinkles, the scars, the stained nails, the henna at the tips of the fingers.

The mark my face leaves in the palm of your hands, like the clasped hands of a dou’a.

There is the hand on the heart for loved ones.

The hand that refuses to let go of the other.

The one that never moved.

The one that touched every life.

The one that knew only one, short and stolen.

They are all gathered together as feathers forming wings on your back.

They tell you:

Let all the ink seep into the earth.

Let the sky rise up through the hollowed-out body.

Let it be.

It’s far too heavy here for the angels of the night.