A Poem

A poem, made out of words.

How did the words get here?

Like an insect from the corner,

Like flowers from the Maybush,

Like whistles from the fire,

What comes to me, I take,

To comb them against the lines,

To pair them unnaturally,

To sheer them naked,

In soapy water washed

My word

My peace, my stranger,

From the lips wrenched,

From breath pushed,

Written in the blowing sand

With their similarities

With their opposites

Line for line,

My own desert

Line for line

My paradise.

Translated by: Amelia Brookover and Brooke Helfer