Between Two Cells

For Mazen Darwish, and all the prisoners of the Syrian regime

I hear your voice light up the next celland the question occurs to meWhere does the guard change his clotheswhen he goes from your cell to mine?How does he shift the letters on his lipswithout one of the two "enemy" languages breaking—a language in despair since its creation,gloomy since infancy, lameobliquedeceitfulthat manages, once it's beautified itselfto trap its neighbor, enthralledin undoing the good-luck charms of its childhood—a language with malleable meaningsengrossed by the charms of exegesis,barefoot, like a dancer bent backward,her anklets linking the text's footto the sultan's desire.How does he change the letters on his lips,a guard who pronounces words badlywhen he goes from my cell to yours?

*

Are you smoking?Reach your hand out between the bars I'll light your cigarette for you,the last one in the packInhale its smoke in secretso the guard doesn't take it away.The light here is dim,no star knows this wounded horizon.Draw up a little sunlight from your heart,it will gouge out the eye of darkness

*

The guard's face here, root of a chronic deathand mirror of a massacre there.The guard's face there, bloody with defeatshe only describes in secret.Since he hasn't learned the role of victimhe dresses in his wolf costumeto hunt down a letter in a poem and riddle it with wounds.The guard's face there,memory of a surrender heavy with stories

*

To the guards here and there, a weakness like dry grassif each one wasn't leaning on a riflethat stands guard over the dunes of his fear,a confession throbbing in a song.And if they exchange a few insultsthe aim is clear,they are only juggling masks.They are a pair of twins,they have one umbilical cord,there where their shadow fell on the eartha slaughter follows a slaughter.

*

hear your voice, the brushing of pine needlesas it climbs the steps of prayerthen exhales the perfectly baked bread of freedomtoward a heart open to the winds

To the prisoners here and those therea single heartthat gets drunk on a breath of freedom

*

I have comrades in prisonwho turn each night, penitent, toward pillows of hopeHunger devours themThirst withers themyet they persist in adorning the hip of our shattered agewith a flock of freed birds