Ehrlich Ross

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An emerging writer, Ehrlich writes poems and uses poetry as a medium to tell stories, navigate through emotions and discover meanings. 
He is a full-time nurse and writes in his spare time.
You can also follow him in all social media as: ehrlichross

Edition XIX

Episiotomy - by Ehrlich Ross (photo by Hakim El Haj)Photo credit: Hakim El Haj

Episiotomy
“When you were born, your mother had no anesthesia”

By Ehrlich Ross

Extreme pain    screeching through my spine       as I push                ankles
Hoisted up by the cold metal stirrup     I lay supine and exposed    I play
Russian roulette with death                                       while my insides churning
Linear streaks                                            lines my over stretched belly
I shout                     as I feel            the sharp blade                            of the scissor
Cutting the skin       of a supposed house of pleasure            but is now
Housing agony                                               what did I do to deserve this pain

Exiting         here comes a head            a shoulder        a pair of arms     a body and
Soul I kept                          and cradled                                                inside me
To feel you   warm                        in my arms              as your cry
Echoes in this bleach smelling room with white tiles       that for most
People  is  a place of beginnings                                             or an end of life
Heaven                     must be missing an angel now  for here         it comes
Arrived                                and here                              nourished from my bosom
None of the pain matters anymore                 the blood                the cut         the
Incision                   the severed placenta                   my now
Empty womb         an atrium for your genesis
oh how wonderful my body is

Enveloped by a woolen blanket                       my baby sleeps and coos       as I sit
Remembering my plight during labour         I am now afloat in mid-air    dreaming    
I am once again      a girl     running on fields      of coconut trees
Catching dragonflies       crossing rivers barefoot    collecting rocks    & seeking
Hidden treasures              your grandmother forbid me                from doing
Such silly things                she calls my name from afar                 I ran towards her
Oblivious of how much trouble I will get for these dirty clothes                      but
Nothing really matters                                                   I am with overflowing joy

and    that’s             exactly                      what I feel              right                         now


Edition XXII

Broken Ghazal Displaced - by Ehrlich Ross (Photo by Hakim El Haj)
Photo credit: Hakim El Haj

Broken Ghazal: Displaced

By Ehrlich Ross

He heard it when the doctor said it’s a bad fracture; it needs surgery – the tibia
comminuted and fibula displaced.
With broken bones and broken English, he tried to ask “what communutted?! not good?!
deespleysd?!”

In the hospital bed, his foot hangs limply from a swollen leg. Pedal pulse is palpable- so is
his fear.
He tilted his body to the side and felt bones rubbing. Knowing how it feels makes it easier
to understand the meaning – displaced.

Two months and alone in a foreign country. He drives around town delivering food to
mouths with tongues pronouncing unfamiliar words.
Then the headlights, the hot concrete, and the heavy bike on his leg.

Every night he empties his pockets filled with dreams and tucks it under his pillow.
Maybe in sleep life is easier and dreams are lived and not something placed in pockets to
help get through the day.

Maybe in a dream, he did get an accident and got away with only a bruise. Maybe
in a dream, he is not worried if he can still be able to walk and won’t be displaced

from his job. Maybe in his dream, he is not afraid to be sent home. That home is not a
graveyard. Walls not pockmarked by bullets and there were no people displaced

by war. Start to question. What is a broken leg when there are children with cracked
skulls?
Why complain when there are people with dreams robbed and displaced

homes? If a home does exist where could it be? Some say here. Some say wherever
not chased by bullets. Some say where my language is not displaced

by another language. Where airplane doesn’t mean- go hide somewhere. And running
doesn’t mean – you are about to die. I wonder what will Elias think if I say – you’ll be
discharged home in five days.

What is home for him? If it were a refuge, will it be his bed? If it were a place with love,
Where is his family? If it were a place, could it be somewhere not distant and displaced?

Maybe home is in the operating room where someone puts him to sleep
but wants him alive, where someone cuts him open just to save his life.

Where pain means he needs a dose of analgesia and doesn’t mean another family member
died. Where nails and metal plates are not used for shrapnels but used to join bones
displaced.

Accidents leave people with broken bones, but war leaves people with broken souls,
dreams, and home. How to chase it with a broken leg? Dreams and home. How to chase it
with a broken soul? When dreams and home are displaced.


Video Archive

Growing Forest” – by Ehrlich Ross