January 2
I shot a gazelle once. Here, a gazelle is a poetic necessity, nothing more.
The truth is made of white and black sheep.
Anyway, I set a trap for the gazelle and it fell into it. I had an indescribable longing
to savor some salty gazelle meat.
I don’t like the lamb they sell in stores. But I do like your brown hand as it pins medals on my shoulder. I like your lips when they say: you’re the pollen of the palm tree.
Me, a palm tree? I’m the steel that wounds it, and the terrifying moon that sacrifices it. I can’t bear my exile any longer. I no longer distinguish between store-bought gazelles and the lamb of the poem.
Casting out the gazelle is futile, the pollen of the palm tree is futile.
If I die, log into my inbox. The password is written on a scrap of paper on the table.
There, you’ll find my will, and you’ll grab the gazelle by its horns.
Read the Arabic-language original, “2013-1-2,” and the translator’s note by Lena Khalaf Tuffaha.
Source: Poetry (September 2023)