Dry Ink

My husband, photographer Michael Nye, once photographed in a West Bank Palestinian refugee camp for days, and was followed around by a little girl who wanted him to photograph her. Finally, he did — and she held up a stone with a poem etched into it. (This picture appears on the cover of my collection of poems, 19 Varieties of Gazelle — Poems of the Middle East). Through a translator, Michael understood that the poem was ‘her poem’ — that’s what she called it. We urged my dad to translate the verse, which sounded vaguely familiar, but without checking roundly enough, we quoted the translation on the book flap and said she had written the verse. Quickly, angry scholars wrote to me pointing out that the verse was from a famous Darwish poem. I felt terrible. I was meeting him for the first and last time the next week. Handing over the copy of the book sheepishly, I said: ‘Please forgive our mistake. If this book ever gets reprinted, I promise we will give the proper credit for the verse.’ He stared closely at the picture. Tears ran down his cheeks. ‘Don’t correct it,’ he said. ‘It is the goal of my life to write poems that are claimed by children.’

my ex-therapist had a tattoo of a knife on her shoulder and there is nothing sadder than that

i. I was 15 and I wanted to be a geologist. I wanted to know how much or how little of the earth is needed to bury myself alive. I wanted to know how much is enough to suffocate me. ii. The prologue to my story mentions your name. The prologue to yours mentions many names, but not mine. The epilogue to your story mentions my name. The epilogue to mine has been ripped out. iii. But if you found the book that tells the story of your life, would you read it to the end? iv. I believe that dreams are like dust. And they settle in between the creases of our eyelids when we sleep. This is why waking up is always difficult - not that life is unbearable and sleeping is the only way we could escape it. I dreamt about running away from peeople I love. I dreamt about being naked. I dreamt about broccoli in a glass of milk. I dreamt about falling. All these in one night. v. If Japan never invaded Manchuria in 1931, my grandparents probably would never have married. In effect, one of the most wonderful women would not be breathing today, whom I have the privilege to call my mother. In effect, I would not be breathing today. And that probably would have been better than winning the war. vi. I wrote you my first love letter on a piece of paper napkin. The wind blew it away. vii. I believe that dreams are memories from our past lives. Our memory is the only thing that remains when everything else is taken away from us. This is why I think amnesia is worse than death. But it may also be a gift. viii. You said: Come home. I said: Wait for me. You said: I am dying. I said: Wait for me. Then you were gone. And I said: Wait for me. ix. I wrote you more letters after that. I wrote mostly at night. Sometimes I like to think that I am strong and I tell myself that I am writing to myself for myself because of myself. But in truth, I was only writing to you for you because of you. In truth, I am not strong. x. I believe in endings. In the past and in life that grows in the dark. I believe in love but only some times - not everyday and not today. I believe there’s something bigger than all of us out there. Maybe inside of us. I believe in a lot of things but not in myself. xi. But if you found the book that tells the story of your life would you find the courage to read it too? I have. And when I tore away the epilogue will that be enough to stop me from killing myself?

…I was happy. Everything was seething with beauty. The heat and dust and ache of it, the enigmatic endurance of the silent and inaccessible…

You’re not doing well and finally I don’t have to pretend to be so interested in your on going tragedy, but I’ll rob the bank that gave you the impression that money is more fruitful than words, and I’ll cut holes in the ozone if it means you have one less day of rain. I’ll walk you to the hospital, I’ll wait in a white room that reeks of hand sanitizer and latex for the results from the MRI scan that tries to locate the malady that keeps your mind guessing, and I want to write you a poem every day until my hand breaks and assure you that you’ll find your place, it’s just the world has a funny way of hiding spots fertile enough for bodies like yours to grow roots. and I miss you like a dart hits the iris of a bullseye, or a train ticket screams 4:30 at 4:47, I wanted to tell you that it’s my birthday on Thursday and I would have wanted you to give me the gift of your guts on the floor, one last time, to see if you still had it in you. I hope our ghosts aren’t eating you alive. If I’m to speak for myself, I’ll tell you that the universe is twice as big as we think it is and you’re the only one that made that idea less devastating.

I know this transformation is painful, but you’re not falling apart; you’re just falling into something different, with a new capacity to be beautiful.

…and I am out with lanterns, looking for myself.

To live in this world you must be able to do three things: to love what is mortal; to hold it against your bones knowing your own life depends on it; and, when the time comes to let it go, to let it go.