by Hussein Al-Dahir
(1)
You haven’t grown up yet—
like you’ve been suckling
from the nipple of nonsense
in broad daylight.
My father says
when he morphs into a weary wolf
mid-month,
or just before his welfare check lands.
“My heart, your hair’s gone white,”
My mother says,
when she remembers to be my mother
in the afternoon.
“You swim like a fish with the current,”
The poet mocks me
when his metaphor begins to itch.
But I do swim like a fish with the current—
It’s a fact.
Tame as a cat after lunch.
Tame as a mouse in a dungeon.
Tame as a grass on a football field.
Tame as the water formula (H₂O).
Tame as a retired whore.
Tame as the word “tame.”
I hear it always—
like it’s my phone’s ringtone.
My own metaphor itches too:
“I live like a birthmark on a girl’s face.”
(2)
Will you return?
You—prophet beneath the ceilings of the First World,
unclothed by fear.
Strike the sea with your staff,
split it like wishes do,
and walk through.
You will find the world has not moved,
and waits for you.
Your mother’s milk—
waits.
The empty stomachs of your comrades,
wait.
The taverns of unfinished past,
the worms beneath the soil,
the stench of hard-faced soldiers’ semen,
the fragile ruins you built
after bribing the municipal inspector—
all wait.
And the fields—
the fields have fallen.
Ash has risen.
Who else will buy a homeland
with ravenous graves
and limping crutches,
if not you?
“Move your heart wherever passion calls”
and stay there.
Translated into English by Dalal Isaac