by Katya Vondermuhll

​

 

Hawa alaqah kalaf

ishq sha’af shaghaf

jawaa taym tabl

​

tadleeh

​

huyum

​

I love.

​

I am a breath

blown back

and forth, rising

and falling, the tip

of the branch, it clinches

my flesh, a lesion

now red.

​

In Beirut I had to cover

my forearm. You had left

the mark of your thumb.

​

The healed man

from the Gospels

goes back

to the pool

of Silouan

and pulls

the clay

from his eyes.

I want

to be blind

again.

​

In the market square

a camel is covered

with tar. I am

burning. Is it true

there is relief

in this ritual?

​

I want to know you really want

it. Look at me! Look

me in the eyes.

​

The first stage

of destruction

is called

shaghaf. This

is when it has spread

to the spleen. This

is the stage

before grief.

​

In a small space

a few leagues

from the market sits

the ewe, her head

bowed, awaiting

slaughter. For now

she is happy, her milk

flows.

​

What is your obsession

with this phrase?

Tell me.

I will not say it.

Just once?

No.

​

Tabl is malady. The dressmaker

takes the damask cloth and tears

it into many pieces. Here, look!

Look what I’ve made for you.

​

In the Hamad it is so black

you cannot see

the stars. At night it is as cold

as the northern sea.

​

Hamza, the glottal stop, the catch

in your voice.

You cannot see it.

It is something that is felt

in the throat.

​

Habibti, habibti, my love,

my dear. I hear you say

this to your daughter. I love

you, habibti. I love

you so much.

​

My lips are closed. I am ended.

I am the yaa’ as in yell

and breeze. The crushed

s with the two dots

beneath its belly. This

is the last letter

of your alphabet. This

is the last time I am

asking

​

Say it!

​

No.