Hands and feet between digits

I dreamt of being a word They translated me into a number shredding my Arabic into metaphysics, pressing my remains into mathematics.

I was a glorious epic Subhan illi sawwar— I am not even news. I had ten toes and fingers How can that add up to a one digit?

I had one head full of hair, of Pokémon catching a Gruffalo of birds, two sisters; and heroes for brothers. My eyes – my mother’s pride A sea bright with driftwoods and glass shards Despite this you couldn’t lay me in a word We gave mathematics, not for you to keep us outside of literature From our cursive scripts I call myself a poem Measure the meters of our numbers We will haunt the length of your line With four letters— Gaza