my husband works his fingers
into the knot muscled against my spine   & my dead
stay dead      my hair a knotted cursive language
my ligature    my grief  barely literate   my amulets
knotted around my neck & wrists   my language
my language   cursive & silent     glottal & knotted
& scarring the cheeks of my dead   adorning the hair
of my dead    tallow in their braided hair
i read the books in translation   where is the poem
& circle every word i know        acacia   lupin
sandalwood & ash   they ululate    my dead
they squat like brides     over clay pots of smoke
a yolk suspended in each open eye     & some
in truth are not dead  my dead   & i am who
is lost    who is not counted among the living
the poem is not owed me    i was wed in all the colors
of my dead    the reddening   the borrowed gold
i wrote the poem in translation   i wrote the poem
in the loophole   i wrote the poem in cursive
i snarled it   i picked apart the threads & wove a shroud
i was wed in it   i unfastened   i broke my fast with apricots
furred like the ears of my dead   i looked laterally
for ancestors   i descended left & right   i read the book
in arabic   knew each letter & its sound   & did not
recognize the words for tallow   for ululate   my dead
my languages   my ligatures   smoke in my loosened hair
Source: poetryfoundation.org
