Desert

poetryfoundation.org/poems/55320/desert-56d236c9c16e2

The cities dissolve, and the earth is a cart loaded with dust

Only poetry knows how to pair itself to this space.

No road to this house, a siege,

and his house is graveyard.

From a distance, above his house

a perplexed moon dangles

from threads of dust.

I said: this is the way home, he said: No

you can’t pass, and aimed his bullet at me.

Very well then, friends and their homes

in all of Beirut’s are my companions.

Road for blood now—

Blood about which a boy talked

whispered to his friends:

nothing remains in the sky now

except holes called “stars.”

The city’s voice was too tender, even the winds

would not tune its strings—

The city’s face beamed

like a child arranging his dreams for nightfall

bidding the morning to sit beside him on his chair.

They found people in bags:

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 a person without a head

a person without hands, or tongue

a person choked to death

and the rest had no shapes and no names.

—Are you mad? Please

don’t write about these things.

A page in a book

bombs mirror themselves inside of it

prophecies and dust-proverbs mirror themselves inside of it

cloisters mirror themselves inside of it, a carpet made of the

alphabet

disentangles thread by thread

falls on the face of the city, slipping out of the needles of memory.

A murderer in the city’s air, swimming through its wound—

its wound is a fall

that trembled to its name—to the hemorrhage of its name

and all that surrounds us—

houses left their walls behind

and I am no longer I.

Maybe there will come a time in which you’ll accept

to live deaf and mute, maybe

they’ll allow you to mumble: death

and life

resurrection

and peace unto you.

From the wine of the palms to the quiet of the desert . . . et cetera

from a morning that smuggles its own intestines

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 and sleeps on the corpses of the rebels . . . et cetera

from streets, to trucks

from soldiers, armies . . . et cetera

from the shadows of men and women . . . et cetera

from bombs hidden in the prayers of monotheists and infidels . . . et cetera

from iron that oozes iron and bleeds flesh . . . et cetera

from fields that long for wheat, and grass and working hands . . . et cetera

from forts that wall our bodies

and heap darkness upon us . . . et cetera

from legends of the dead who pronounce life, who steer our life . . . et
cetera

from talk that is slaughter and slaughter and slitters of throats . .

. et cetera

from darkness to darkness to darkness

I breathe, touch my body, search for myself

and for you, and for him, and for the others

and I hang my death

between my face and this hemorrhage of talk . . . et cetera

You will see—

say his name

say you drew his face

reach out your hand toward him

or smile

or say I was happy once

or say I was sad once

you will see:

there is no country there.

Murder has changed the city’s shape—this stone

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 is a child’s head—

and this smoke is exhaled from human lungs.

Each thing recites its exile . . . a sea

of blood—and what

do you expect on these mornings except their arteries set to sail

into the darkness, into the tidal wave of slaughter?

Stay up with her, don’t let up—

she sits death in her embrace

and turns over her days

tattered sheets of paper.

Guard the last pictures

of her topography—

she is tossing and turning in the sand

in an ocean of sparks—

on her bodies

are the spots of human moans.

Seed after seed are cast into our earth—

fields feeding on our legends,

guard the secret of these bloods.

I am talking about a flavor to the seasons

and a flash of lightning in the sky.

Tower Square—(an engraving whispers its secrets

to bombed-out bridges . . . )

Tower Square—(a memory seeks its shape

among dust and fire . . . )

Tower Square—(an open desert

chosen by winds and vomited . . . by

them . . . )

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Tower Square—(It’s magical

to see corpses move/their limbs

in one alleyway, and their ghosts

in another/and to hear their sighs . . . )

Tower Square—(West and East

and gallows are set up—

martyrs, commands . . . )

Tower Square—(a throng

of caravans: myrrh

and gum Arabica and musk

and spices that launch the festival . . . )

Tower Square—(let go of time . . .

in the name of place)

—Corpses or destruction,

is this the face of Beirut?

—and this

a bell, or a scream?

—A friend?

—You? Welcome.

Did you travel? Have you returned? What’s new with you?

—A neighbor got killed . . . /

...............................................................

A game /

—Your dice are on a streak.

—Oh, just a coincidence /

.............................................
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Layers of darkness

and talk dragging more talk.

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