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from the June 2005 issue


Your cooing wears me out at night-

so wear me out. Like wine in the odes, you go on cooing

and leave me what moves horses

to tears,

what weighs birds down with more wings,

what singing follows

Your coo is a cradle

kept from rocking

cornered by absence.

Is the tree of the heart enough

If our wind was shattered and we too were shattered with the wind?

Is the tree of the heart made of our blood,

or mirage? A question seduces me shooting star by shooting star

a flower a flower or two numb upon my arm

as dawn steals blue to bathe the dew

so I see it. And for this question, the gazelle,

and what binds us in the nets of the answer

-and so the sky won't be confined-

I'll release a flock of stray doves and open the towers of my spirit for

the day to come- So if your cooing drowns me,

let me drown-

and if you wake me up I'll leave a crack of dream open

and sleep

A cell in the Palestine division, 1987

For the next poem in this sequence, click here.

Read more from the June 2005 issue
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