Nathalie Handal

Who needs to be at peace in the world? It helps to be between wars, to die a  few  times  each day to understand your father's sky, as you take it apart piece  by  piece  and can't feel  anything,  can't  feel the tree growing under your feet, the eyes poking night only to find another night to compare it to. Whoever   heard   of   turning   pain   into   hummingbirds   or   red  birds— haven't  we  grown?  What  does  it mean to be older?  Maybe a house with- out  doors  can  still  survive  a  storm. Maybe I can't find the proper way to rebel  or  damn it,  I can't  leave.  I want to,  but you grow inside of me. And as  I  watch   you,  before  I  know  it,  I'm  too  heavy,  too full  of  you  to  move. Maybe  that's what they meant when they said you shouldn't love a country too much.

We say lightning has no wings when it slides down our houses We say loss is just a condition we acquire to bury our pity further We say the bleeding hands on the table filled with red wine imported products and passports are just reminders of who we have become We have no titles no birthright no groves or Shakespeare to return to We apologize for the fear growing out of our ribs Apologize for the numbers still etched on our tongues

We kept only the keys, letters, and photos — everything else stayed behind when we left the house. That can happen when a nation changes overnight, when those you know turn into a gate of feathers — and the thing about feathers is, they know what's been missed. For years I watch my neighbor's house from others' windows— different countries, various homes, some of brick, some of stone. Some never imagine what a home can mean when an unfinished tune traps the ceiling. I pretend never to have seen a body midair, a father's hands planted on the ground— after all what we don't admit to never happened. But I couldn't change that day in Murcia, when water brought light to the door: I am seven it is the day before our departure, the day my father gives me a notebook, and I tell him, this is where I'll keep my country.

History can't be rushed. We didn't have time to see the village, we didn't have time to see the house fall to build light out of mud, nor did we see time burning. The city is missing, and we've saved others, our backs turned. What happened is a different reality in everyone's mind, but the direction we took tells us the world doesn't end when we force air out of bones. Now we know the myth by the cup of coffee going cold, realize we were never told how to take the street parallel to our heart.

There  is a  sorceress in our night.  A  sky  that  only  moves  memory to make place  for  the  mangoes of last month.  There is an old man who says,Libéremoi.  And  means,  Take  everything   but  my  blackness.  Only  in the dark do doves  find   reason.  Only  in  the  dark  do  doves  have  reason to believe that vengeance  is  light  hanging  on  fallen  tree.  After each  fall, we  ask, where is the   island,   the  sugarcane  that  disappeared  in  our hunger,  the  water that emptied  our  thirst,  the  song   that  robbed  our  nightmare?   They  mock  us. They  tell  us to  whisper in their ears.  They will obey.  But  curses  beat  the air wild.  The air is faint.  And they tell us,Stop plotting fire. You are in the wrongland even if the roosters recognize you. They hated our black. What they didn't understand is that it illuminates their world.

This is what I see: a grain of wheat in the hand of a small boy barefoot on the unnamed roads, sleeping in the dream another is having. An oud, a violin, a guitar, a mirror of dew, a man about to undress, a woman staring. A traveler returning everywhere and forgetfulness stealing from itself. Maktoub, the Moor says, we hold clouds in our mouth and imagine God in our breath.

— One hundred breaths split the air as I lean on the only pine tree I find. It’s early or late, it’s breezy or hot. The fields are dry. Summer is near. The horses are everywhere, strangely galloping a dream, but I can’t remember how to call them, so I stand back, watch them pass. — The first time I rode a horse my body found the music of fire, crackling the wind. An unbearable pleasure that also left me with a burn on the side of my leg. A sign, the horsekeeper told me,of longing. A need to return—to belong. After all, departure is like pushing the weight of our heart against the village whose name has kept us awake. — Rafael came from somewhere in Eurasia. I passed my hands through his mane— saw a history of conquests and battles, a field of hay, a mount of truth, heard a silent ring, his eyes asking me to go with him, to confess something sacred, to name something lustful. Nothing of where he came from, or who I was, disturbed us. — I knew he was different by the way he ran— without pause, without grace, without distraction, without ease. He was told how to move in the world and resented it. He knew he would never own anything. — He came toward me. It was a quiet afternoon. I stood unmoving. And we listened to the untitled music circling the earth like an anthem free of its nation. — He was unfamiliar to me, approaching as if he possessed the land. Every morning he stopped five feet from the river.

The shadows of birds fading on a fighter’s back The undressing of words on an unstamped postcard The wet swings in the distant park The jealousy of raindrops on the umbrella of lovers The laughter of a boy before a bird The song of two flutes, two swords, two bracelets, two fingers The stare of a wave before a pearl The yearning between the legs of a farmer’s wife The opening of doors             closing midday The sudden howling of our muse—and les éventails—disturbing the guest inside of us

Death is careless at times. It confuses love with a wet afternoon in an empty room.  The  unpainted walls a reminder of how sex can resemble poverty.  A hollow  cry.   An open mouth falling inside as you sleep.   I prepare  my heart and language with better words,  like worlds in small selves  I've built.  Every month,  one dollar buys me one brick.  But  how many bricks  does  it  take to build a house?  A stray dog barks late at night.  I can't  see him  but know he's there.   He   reminds   me   that  here,  dreams  have  dangerous  turns.  I  turn around  to  no  one  naked  beside  me. I  play  it  safe  not to see the fire in my hands.  But let us be clear:  I'm no beggar.  It's  just that there are times  when the  world  is  a  sound  that  cripples  the air,  and the soul. When what seems arranged — glazing and  strange,  like  music  played on tin cans — turns  into wilting  noise.  When  suddenly,  all  that  exists  is  a small boy trying to focus on the pain lifting a nation.  A telephone call:He was wearing black shoes, a Calvin  Klein  T-shirt  that he  found in a hotel trash, brown slacks.  She  was wearing  one  earring  on her right ear,  one sock on her left foot, a dress the color  of sky.  She  bought him  a canne à sucre.  He pulled her close, said, Ti cherie.   And  after  they  promised  to meet  later,   she  winked  and  walked leisurely in the shade. A tremble followed. When he turned around, her body was one of a thousand on the streets. He ran towards her, stood by her arm,unable to see her face. The call drops. I begin to count the ways I tolerate my dry mouth. To count the glasses of water I gave away to make up for my sins. But this act does not count when we fall out of our hearts.