In Arabic There Are Eleven Stages of Love
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.