Suddenly
everything feels afterwards,
stoic and inevitable, 
my eyes ringed with the grease of rumor and complicity,
my hands eager to hold any agreeable infatuation
that might otherwise slip away.
Suddenly
it’s evening and the lights up and
down the street appear hopeful,
even magnanimous,
swollen as they are with ancient grievances
and souring schemes. The sky,
however,
appears unwelcoming,
and aloof, eager to surrender
its indifference to our suffering.
Speaking of suffering,
the houses—our sober, recalcitrant houses—
are swollen with dreams that have grown opaque with age,
hoarding as they do truths
untranslatable into auspicious beliefs.
Meanwhile,
our loneliness,
upon which so many laws are based,
continues to consume everything.
Suddenly,
regardless of what the gods say,
the present remains uninhabitable,
the past unforgiving of the harm it’s seen,
while
the future remains translucent
and unambiguous
in its desire to elude us.

^{translated from the Arabic by Kareem James Abu-Zeid}

I said these words weren’t needed
as I was sitting there,
where the road veered sharply,
without thinking for a moment
that it might only be a gentle winding.
Yet here I am, new,
like I always was.
Why should I care
if it’s the beating of tambourines
or the striking of tablas
or the madness of zurnas
that’s happening here?
I’m made of earth,
so why should I care
if I’m crumbled
or scattered on the land?

It was in this labyrinth,
in it alone,
that I found my way.

في هذه المتاهة

وكنتُ أجلس في المنعطفات  
وأقول هذا كلامٌ نافِل  
دون أن أُفكّر للحظةٍ بأنّها منحنَيات  
وها أنا أكون جديداً  
كما دوماً كنتُ  
وما هَمَّني ضَربُ دفوفٍ أم قرع طبولٍ أم جنون مزامير  
ما همّني ما همّني  
أنا من ترابٍ  
وما همّني أذبلُ أو أُحطَّم بأرضي  
وفي هذه المتاهة 
فيها وحدها 
وجدتُ طريقي.  

^{translated from the Vietnamese by Phương Anh}

to whisper.the flowers await eagerly 
night holds onto the traveler’s feet.a wafting scent
butterfly wings flash.moon echoes.wind rises
a shadow is growing.the lingering agarwood? 

you bend to pick up your shadow that was dropped 
sky and earth convulse in all directions
destruction weighs on my shoulders.endless
human lives have left behind sediments.a bud of scent

that night.was it the final night?
i lie, listening.to the trees and leaves call each other 
the flock of small birds on the branches.stop.singing
hiding in the heart forever a soul enchanted!

Đêm tận tuyệt (final final night)

kể gì.những bông hoa ngóng đợi
đêm cầm chân lữ khách.một làn hương
cánh bướm chớp.vang lừng trăng.gió nổi
bóng ai về vời vợi quá. trầm vương?

em cúi nhặt bóng mình vừa rơi xuống
đất trời như kính động khắp nghìn phương
niềm hư hoại oằn vai.vô lượng
kiếp người vừa đọng lại.một chồi hương

đêm hôm ấy.có là đêm tận tuyệt?
tôi nằm nghe.cây lá gọi nhau về
bầy chim nhỏ trên cành.thôi.không hót
giấu trong lòng mai mãi một hồn mê!

There was the bang
and then this 

bloom. Long falling action.
Each beginning—lip to lip, 

slick birth, blue-red, momentous—
gave way to a succession of meals, hours

at the desk. Only a few 
like this one 

on an evening beach. 
My mother and I 

each hold one of my daughter’s hands.
I don’t touch my mother now,

only the brief embrace upon arrival 
or departure. Not like once. 

But if the years unspool 
in a common pattern I will 

hold her hand again. Sometime 
I’ll cradle her elbow 

steady down a stair.
This year I watched her 

speak slowly and set cut food 
before her own mother. I thought

what wild reversals time makes, 
how we sail out on the far 

sling of orbit, then come close 
again. A red sun

pillows on the surf
that pulls away from us, and

even on a cut stem, 
buds keep opening.