By Fadi Abu Deeb

(First published in Inventory Journal, No. 9, Princeton University)

(1)

In the streets of Stockholm

After the eyes of the spies sleep

I tear the sails of the air

with a Viking dagger.

I re-tailor them by measures I don’t divulge,

Which I have learnt from the tailors of light and the captains of galaxies

Thus I prepare the archipelago of the city for sailing after midnight

In the dark, I unlock the gates of the old lanes to the winds,

To hear the melody of the waves, bumping in every room

To enjoy the taste of worry and dread-

That sweet anxiety before the appearance of the Certainly-Coming

(2)

The white waters

A weightless ring around our polar garden

Imprisons us in the depth of the strange winter

The winter that carried my village- the village of the Golden-Thighed

Bringing its mud, bramble and thunder

Planting in my hair

blossoms of prophetic dreams,

That I, the exiled child,

Will see the feminine face of God

(3)
On Saturday evening
The polar village is a handful of aquamarines and moonstones
shining beside the highway
Casted from the luminous bosom of the sky.
In the womb of each spec of light,
A woman, talking to a star or a planet/
With her ecstatic exhales,
Praying that they send her a child or a pleasure beyond
***
On Saturday evening
The ancient god rests
frightened by the rule of Law
Now the girls can speak with the unlocked galaxy
And we hear our words wandering
Transformed and augmented
In the passages of the abysmal void