In her debut collection, Everything Has Been Moved, Even the Dead, Jen Siraganian traces a self shaped by history, fragmentation, and memory as she weaves her family’s past in the Middle East with her identity as an Armenian-American woman and mother. Whether portraying a grandparent’s survival during the Armenian Genocide, a father’s childhood in 1940s Palestine, or a son’s birth when “death is a neighbor,” Siraganian’s poems interrogate concepts of home, origins, belonging, and displacement. Using a docupoetic lens, the poet braids narratives with archival photographs and artifacts to chart cycles of cultural and historic erasure while enacting an intertextual conversation with artists of the diaspora, and with art itself. Through poems that seed each other with recurring images of pomegranates, mushrooms, and fire, Everything Has Been Moved, Even the Dead pushes against annihilation with a voice that resists silence.
I slipped from their bodies, became
another body, my DNA stained
with their unlimited loss.
Orphaned for being Armenian,
waiting for parents and siblings to wake,
hungry for someone to take them.
What does it mean to live
when others want you dead?
Two generations later, who am I to understand?
Not that they spoke of it.
No words sprung until after
a grandmother’s funeral,
when everyone thirsts
for a shared language,
stories that reside
in my sloughed skin
or a speck of saliva.
A bone-deep knowledge
of what it is to be hunted.

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