The conflict, Regrets in Galilee, The ballad of Haya, Twelve deaths at noon & Orphans of night
by Nathalie Handal
[ poetry - december 04 ]
The conflict
They came as if I was not there -
thirty-three, one hundred and twenty-five
long hair, brown hair, blue eyes
lines on the sides of my mouth
yellow skin
They came while I was out buying bread,
not knowing that I walk
outside the house
without myself
It is not morning yet-
two ambulances, three fire trucks,
twenty-four cars passed in eighty-two seconds,
and they came
They came with death on their uniforms
perhaps we are not meant to understand everything,
so we try to understand
where we are from, where we are going,
what we look like
They came with a picture of a subway ticket
half a bottle of juice,
told me I can leave,
as if I need their permission
as if I am in the wrong place,
told me I wouldn't shiver when I sleep
or dream of moist earth
as if they knew me,
told me I didn't need to follow
misery at every corner
didn't need to see my sidewalks bleeding
as if that will change my mind
They came to tell me that
I do not understand the place I inherited
so they will help me leave,
and I realize - we are far from each other,
and grow farther still, smaller still
like broken glass shattered in our throats,
our breath abandoning God.
Regrets in Galilee
A night by a fire, a day in Galilee
and all I found was a haunting
in the middle of your speech
a bridge of echoes...
I borrow the passion of birds for the evening
and trip over my dreams
like a woman wearing another woman's heels.
I think of the seasons that have offended me
and the lovers I never unmasked...
I let the running water flow on my lap
down my legs into my shoes.
What were you going to say
that night when I started travelling?
When I stopped you mid-sentence?
The ballad of Haya
And a hand was left
nothing more of her
And the memory of
a bullet through
her uniform was left
nothing more of her
And the old gold color
of her hair
and the silver dark beneath her eyes
and the borders of her heart
falling as she walked
block after block was left
nothing else of her
Twelve deaths at noon
I look for their eyes, only see the dust
at the corner of their hearts. It's twelve o'clock. Midday.
Everything starts here. The sun heating our foreheads.
The arrival of a murdered son or husband. The bullet
they vow to find. The voices like drumbeats in our ears.
The strangeness of light between these boys and their stones.
The prisons in our souls. The rivers dying in our mirrors.
When was the last time we looked at our reflection,
saw ourselves and not a shadow insane, not jars of eroded bones
not the small child in us looking for our burnt eyelashes.
When was the last time we slept without dreaming we died,
without wishing the killer dead, without looking for our gun
while making love.
I pass tanks, soldiers, orange blossoms,
look at the earth, wait for a message a song.
Hear nothing. The land lies bleeding. It's noon. The boys,
now angels in stone, have come back to a different home.
Orphans of night
We stood under the doorframe,
you on one side, me on the other...
we were used to borders.
It was Paris seven o'clock.
Café des États Unis.
I felt the night under my blouse
and waited for you to greet me.
My map around my neck
you ask me if we come
from the same place -
where figs lie on the coffins
of boys, a past misplaced.
You give me a glass of red wine
ask me who killed my father
tell me why the nights
begin every night here
and lead me to a stroll.
We walk through avenues
unknown in our stories
reach the Metro
turn to each other
wanting to return
returning only to an empty
bottle of wine and a café
about to close.
