By Eve Grubin –
I try to speak slant
or bright.
My words meet triangles
of fire, thrown.
Meanings I make
disintegrate.
I try to speak slant
or bright.
If I say… pogrom, the turning begins…
I become mute.
I must not say, I cannot name…
So many words can’t be said.
No matter what, the mere fact
of saying censors.
I try to speak slant
or bright.
Sentences turn in my mind:
You are coming into us who cannot withstand you
you are coming into us who never wanted to withstand you
you are taking parts of us into places never planned
you are going far away with pieces of our lives
Searching for language, words hurt.
The word seventh bruises.
Music and festival are tremors in my hand.
We never wanted to bear this.
I try to speak slant
or bright.
Knives between.
Parts torn.
Confusion at the glee.
The words don’t translate.
I try to speak slant
or bright.
Image by Noa Arad-Yairi
