Excerpt from She Says

Where do words come from?
from what rubbing of sounds are they born
on what flint do they light their wicks
what winds brought them into our mouths

Their past is the rustling of stifled silences
the trumpeting of molten elements
the grunting of stagnant waters

Sometimes
they grip each other with a cry
expand into lamentations
become mist on the windows of dead houses
crystallize into chips of grief on dead lips
attach themselves to a fallen star
dig their hole in nothingness
breathe out strayed souls

Words are rocky tears
the keys to the first doors
they grumble in caverns
lend their ruckus to storms
their silence to bread that’s ovened alive

***

Words, she says, used to be wolves
they lined up on the mountain peaks to tell the moon about the
difficulty of climbing the slope
the complacency of the flocks
and the chaotic movements of migrating clouds

They placed their anger at the moon’s feet when it turned the black book of night went to sleep amidst the ranting of the pages
which spoke of a gold-leafed country where sleep drops
into wells with hits load of turbaned stars
But wolves don’t know the Orient

***

For J.-F. Auregan

He shakes her so she’ll drop the words she stole
makes her break her engagement to the maple tree
attaches her to the same leash as a goat and a four-leaf clover
then sets her free in compensation

He upends her like a wineskin to drink her in one gulp
hoists her onto his shoulders to scale the slope
fills her mouth with gravel so she’ll be understood by the mountain
He asks her to listen to his grief

He translates her cry into seven languages
but muzzles her echo which makes the broom-brushes leap up
chains her to his house
buries her there
He is so calm that a spider could spin its web in his head

On his way
he passes a wedding procession in a field
the angel walking at its head is knitting a baby’s vest out of his own hair
he invites the angel to a banquet with his ladybug
but the angel shakes his head
his load is as heavy as his heart

That evening
he dines alone with his shadow
tells the fire about the woman the angel the four-leaf clover
without saying how long ago his story happened

***

Autumn preceded summer by one day
vigilant gardeners cut the passionflowers’ damp lashes earlier than
expected
and the clocks knit narrower nights

A yellow wind dyed the forests’ facades
the trees stopped playing
and the swings full of little girls and robins stopped moving
with a great rustling of wings and petticoats

November had banished tears
compassionate angels licked the small scraped knees

***

One day she says
I’ll build a house of stones and lamps
with my grave in the branches
held in the outstretched arms of a sycamore

Processions of rain will come to visit it
and the horizon tired of walking a tightrope over a puddle of ocean
will stretch out on its doorstep

I’ll hunt down the fog that steals flocks and forms

It moves in throngs like colorless wolves
slits the throats of streams
enters trough every orifice
fills bodies and tree trunks with its padding
turns them into soundproof cylinders
leaves nothing but its echo for the blood

From She Says by Vénus Khoury-Ghata. English language translation copyright 2003 by Marilyn Hacker. All rights reserved.