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Dalia |
Maybe he opened his own tombstone
but then you were not born to think freely
Always elusive among the verdure
where waterfalls cough and nightingales quake
If he opened his tombstone to me and I wore his brown-stained shroud,
it doesn’t mean he invited me in to walk his way.
And how did you know and who told you
that, I love him
What choice did he have, signaling trumpets and chariots and war?
Only my own image is spooned upside down
He did not fear the consequences,
his distorted image self-loved in the water
He never lost a partner in the shoals,
never waded through vomit and feces,
scurrying like a rat through gutter trash
Who had the power to reign over all this
at the mention of hunger pains?
Maggots and urine can trump all this.
Humiliation and sacrifice are like a rushing river,
like a seafloor beneath crashing waves.
Maybe he cried alone, maybe he carved his future out in dough,
but he did not touch a warm blanket in a field of daffodils
and he did not meet his mistress behind the cabaret
or drink tea with Mamluks or lose his savings at cards
or wake up to discover last night’s bad idea.
I hold these leaves to be self-evident,
turning to dispel the new day (we are not the once-more remembered thought).
Labels: Dalia
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