Translated from the Chinese by Liang Yujing “Happy Spring Festival …” I say to the sky.It looks clear and bright. I salute the world.It keeps silent. I greet humankind.The large crowd, once there, are all gone today. Seen through the glass, the world is empty.Where are the people? They seem to be wrapped tight…
I must have been sitting at the wrong table—the conversation was about chilblains,someone insisted only the British knowwhat they are—who among us had hadthem, those red eruptions of welts onhands and feet shivering in the damp cold?No one.(I wanted to change the subject so I didn’t saymy father had chilblains when he swamin our icy…
We waited around, for what I don’t know—the strange body becoming strangerthe more we stared? After you starelong enough a cloud might take the shapeof a frog or an elephant lying down,or not look like anything but cloud. How much time had passed? After a while we put on our jackets and hats,then somebody dropped a deerskin…
Translated from the Chinese by Liang Yujing When I pass through the years, my younger selfno longer awaits me. He has ridden away on a horse,farther and farther, raising a cloud of dust, and finally gone.I have to look for him in a mirror, and see thisslowly aging face that has gradually become strange….
Then, I will be a person who knows ferns—who has tramped the woods for miles to tell youabout glacial egg-shaped boulders mattedwith which kind of fern, and then, forty miles south,that the same kind of fern, the Walking Fern,is still vibrant (though less bosky) on northernslopes, in lime sand, and I will be a hat-wearing,walking-stick-carrying…
While you get high with your therapist, I’m smoking a spliff in a cemetery, readingabout the Birds of Tennessee, wishing we were playing house in New York.The art is beautifuleverywhere, but all descriptions of art are the same.Theory elides the gap between aesthetics and ethics.The greathorned owl lives in the suburbs. I’m dismayedto learn the barred…
Translated from the Arabic by Abdelrahman ElGendy So-and-so brushedmy shoulder as gunshotscracked. So-and-so: I never learnedhis name, so I called himcousin, and that wasenough. So-and-so, who sharedhis last bite as hungerfissured my song. So-and-so, a blurwho saw you safelythrough the square. So-and-so, who frisked mewith a grin, asked,“Is he reallystepping down?” So-and-so who told…
I am ready to have less of loss—a thought that comes to me now that I’m used to having lossall around, shows up as I walk past the freshly cut field near the spotwhere my mother-in-law broke both her ankles, bleeding heartsstubborn on the terrace. Some want the poem to come for themfrom the sky…
people like to say, though younever liked when I said itabout this painting, your portraitof a sad clown—your favorite kind.Hair mussed, her greasepaintfaint but still there, she stares outinto an empty place beyondthe unframed canvas. What can I sayto make her stir? Even as a kid,I knew immediately—it was you, Mom.“Not a self-portrait,” you insisted,though…
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