Translated by Karen Alkalay-Gut
Be naked in a warm place.
Read slowly. Bit by bit
Let the air touch you.
Close your eyes sometimes.
Forget that others exist.
lychee, fresh, cold and peeled
pulp touches your lip
moving slowly, fleeing, sliding,
the tip of your tongue caresses the round opening, comes to it,
the sweet perfumed wholeness of its tastes melts in your flesh,
texture of cool nectar on your lips, burning in your mouth
the fruit rolls between lips to gums, under the tongue.
A thick white carpet is spread out in the room.
On it tiny fruit, red and round and naked, abundant mounds.
You roll over and invade the wild fruits, your body mingling with their dark lusciousness,
you lick your skin and burrow, cradle yourself and taste.
in a bath of oils; almond; coconut and rustling words:
Pe†† ach. Cunt† cunt. Straw† berries.† But† tocks
Blo† od†† ber† ries†† mut ter ing†† de li que† scing
Tomorrow you will speak, my first love.
The wind will carry spines of sand upon the old shore.
And you will tell me who I was
when you knew me first.
My face opened like an anemone,
my limbs trembled like cyclamen,
I knew nothing.
All the wrinkles were obscured in my bulb:
face, neck, memory, fat, appendixes.
I had not been pulled at by many hands.
Only dark void met your lips.
You will tell about me.† I will absorb what I need
to get up the day after, at six fifteen exactly
like a sinuous sycamore, exposed to the mirrors
framed† in the dark void where your lips are not.
Iím doing nothing.
Iím weaving time like Japanese textile artists, I
write the place where the vertical threads of warp
slowly disappear into the weft.
Delicate word threads encircle the voids, like weave
of rice paper capturing the sprint of the leopard.
Sentence after sentence woven patiently into yarn,
the wick rolled and dipped into indigo hollows,
blue capillaries now stretch asymmetrically into the text,
transparence and stain emanate from each other.
When they hang my fabrics in the exhibit,
the lucid textures will tempt all passers,
all the cells in your skin will desire
to penetrate the cloths,
the minute the guard turns away.
Always the last. Tomorrow I will see only
simple poppies in a sea of mums
and wheat,† hollyhocks, stubble.† Chopped.
I am on the road to Beit Zeyit, and thinking
how, how always you refuse to see
me.† I remember: the hill shone with anemones
narcissus, adonis.† I ran in the mud, my head
thrown back to the skies.† I was three and knew
bliss.† I confided to you that narcissus will not fade
if we persist in looking at the sweet smell of its crown.
You wiped my shoes and hurried to the dining hall
Now the pasqueflowers.† The last ones.† Liat is forty,
an echo rolling and longing in these hills
I smell narcissus every summer, wipe children.† By now
I will never reach you.† I always refuse to see
you.† The spring pushes to its end.† A gray
day collapses into me