The outflow of your drifting—
up until now you’ve slid along the road
I would like
in a faraway language
to tell you what I don’t
understand
**
Nothing pulls you back from doubt any longer
from obsession
from seeding
your body is amnesia plural futile limpid
a disappearance
stands in for space
stands in for an emptiness
to circle round
**
Not visible the sense
slumbers teeters on the edge
you expect nothing of the hours
not the days returned
not daybreak
you expect
**
There had been no
days without sand
and you thought the sun
inexhaustible
you had not seen:
the lantern is cold
**
Leaving you
clamber up your confusion
on the cord
of forgetting
Leaving is
all of life still
behind you
**
What remains
to begin each morning
at the same hour
like
starting from zero
to answer time’s memory loss
and the drift of ages
your mother, trembling
the genealogy of the worst
the disaster of the gods
to finish counting the remaining hours
**
You can’t bring yourself
to let go of the sky’s edge
at nine o’clock
this morning
you hold the sailboat’s breath
head for the narrowest path
to redraw the mirage
**
You ask yourself what is
a place of your own
if you must fade yourself out
unweight yourself of promises
yesterday you wanted to know if
and now you no longer know why
you should have dived in with no expectations
“Moins un” © Samira Negrouche. By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2019 by Marilyn Hacker. All rights reserved.
