Strolling in the gardens of the dead

Abdulla Issa: Poem ‘Strolling in the gardens of the dead’

The postman did not care
for the letters left behind,
in mailboxes

hardened by telegrams bearing the obituaries of the ancestors,

and he found no trace of the addresses
that vanished with the lives of their residents
beneath the rubble of neglected houses.

As if the last October of all the months
Was whipping us
from between our legs toward the Wall of Resurrection,

drawing the dead out
of the ancient scroll
Believing what they foretold,
heralding its ruin in the margins of ancient myths,
and among the gerbils that dug up the graves of the dead.

It makes yarrow sprout beneath the fingernails
of corpses that were once soldier—
rained fire and darkness upon us.

I saw a woman who wished to draw her child back into her womb;
Even the graves are unsafe, she screams.

I saw a child who could not find
the shadow of his own arms
cast upon his brother’s shoulders
in their last embrace;
as if the death of light in his eyes
were like another shell
colliding with your entire head.

I saw a young woman mourning her life before the cameras:
This is my beloved
They brought him back in a body bag

I don’t believe what the dead recount,
says the history teacher,
For geography , there is use in your remaining logged
in longing for yourself-
there-
where you lay a posthumous feast for the family’s slain
And you chase the darkness,
In pursuit of those
Who once lurked around our white shadows,
Within the scrolls.

Do not bury the remains of the oleander at the edge that lake,

Do not mourn your own dying before you wore the crown of thorns,

Waiting for the resurrection on the road to the sky.
A nun says to a soldier she saw the devil’s index finger on his trigger:
I am no longer hungry or completely afraid,
I don’t want a warm loaf of bread or a glass of cold water.
No refuge or candle
But only a grave,
And let it be communal ,
Shared with the sparrows who have dreamed of
Trees, rivers that embrace us,
Forests that pray for us on the mountains,
Cave explorers whose lineages became heritage of our first drawings,
And a people, caught between two alters, cursing their killer.

Abdulla Issa

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