Drone • Ferry Tale
“We have become too accustomed
to seeing from the air, which
violates all the familiar geometry
and perspective of our mundane,
grounded vision.”
— Nasser Hussain
I.
The sky was a color
she loved most —
the holy blue
before Eid mornings.
The air was calm, quietly
surveilling
the trio as they plucked
okra in the fields.
Eyes hovering.
The fields, always buzzing.
zung zung zung
They brushed off
machars circling
for prey.
zung zung
In range
a long profile
zung zung
zung
II.
replay it, the footage —
of a strike so deafening
remains detached, an aerial silence.
zoom in. aim.
two clicks.
somewhere below
the missile ejects
the precision
of the impact —
to be discussed later
on camera
the mountains of Waziristan
stand still
One cloudy evening
you will find yourself
alone on a ferry
between islands
as foreign to you
as your ancestors.
You will wonder how
they would see you,
with your open
gaze and amreeki
accent, as unfamiliar
as the German
couple next to you,
mouths casually
secured as anchors.
You could have
said it like them,
ferries, fairies,
all it takes is a lilt,
and there you are
with wings bright
enough to be confused
with God. Your mind
will begin to wander
with the waves
and you wonder
at the froth, churning
one ending
for hundreds
of you.
Edited by Joyce Chen and Zeina Abi Assy.
The featured image is "South Waziristan near Makeen" courtesy of Tariq Mahsud.
