Widow by Vénus Khoury-Ghata

Widow

The first day after his death

she folded up her mirrors

put a slipcover on the spider web

then tied up the bed which was flapping its wings to take off

 

The second day after his death

she filled up her pockets with wood chips

threw salt over the shoulder of her house

and went off with a tree under each arm

 

The third day after his death

she swore at the pigeons lined up along her tears

bit into a grape which scattered its down in her throat

then called out till sunset to the man gone barefoot

into the summer pasture in the cloudy mountains

 

The fourth day

a herd of buffalo barged into her bedroom

demanding the hunter who spoke their dialect

she shouldered her cry

shot off a round

which pierced the ceiling of her sleep

 

The fifth day

shoe-soles of blood imprinted themselves on her doorstep

she followed them to that ditch where everything smells of boned hare

 

The sixth day after his death

she painted her face with earth

attacked the peaceful shadows of passers-by

slit the throats of trees

their colorless blood evaporated when it touched her hands

 

The seventh day

stringy men sprouted in her garden

she mistook them for poplars

bit the armpits of their branches

and lengthily vomited wood-chips

 

The eighth day

the sea whinnied at her door

she washed her belly's embankments

then called down to the river's mouth

where men clashed together like pebbles

 

The ninth day

she dried her tears on the roof between the basil and the budding fog

gazed at herself in stones

found cracks in her eyes like those in a church's stained glass

 

The tenth day

he surged up out of her palm

sat down on her fingernail

demanded her usual words to drink and the almond odor of her knees.

He swallowed them without pleasure

on his journey he'd lost the taste for tortured water

 

(translated by Marilyn Hacker)