“The Key”
The last key I carried
dangles alone on the key rack
like a corpse at the gallows
the key to the house that is no longer our house
that won’t be our house tomorrow
is rusted with memories
and coated with the desert sand we left in our wake
and the house?
maybe the walls that soaked up our screams
and the sweat of our tired words
will repaint themselves
our words so often splintered
veiling the radiant light with colors
your back is naked, my hand is naked
light separates us
ideas separate us
it’s not the door
nor the roads
but your naked back that separates us
I needed tears and many poems,
other poems whose days bruised them blue
I needed anguish to bruise my heart black
I needed all our choked words
and the sour air heavy with our breaths
heavy with anger and all the lies
a tress of lies you braided
I undid it
with the patience of a woman long blinded by love
the key to the house that is no longer our house
that won’t be our house tomorrow
I threw it out with a heap of memories
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“The Key” by Ines Abassi, translated by Hodna Bentali Gharsallah Nuernberg and Koen De Cuyper, from Home: New Arabic Poems, published by Two Lines Press, 2020, as part of the Calico Series. Reprinted with permission from the author and translators.
