Diane LeBlanc
Glose: A Keyhole Remembering a Door
Words are rocky tears
the keys to the first doors
they grumble in caverns
lend their ruckus to storms
their silence to bread that’s ovened alive
Venus Khoury-Ghata: from She Says
— translated by Marilyn Hacker
Brittle as azurite,
the logic of war.
Where statues fell to cheers
now gravestones weep: their
words are rocky tears.
The men who once flew kites
salvage from those skies
hoopoe beak and bones, now tools.
They dig through doors using
the keys to the first doors.
Beneath the rubbled night
a breast weeps ash, a mouth
mothers its own burns,
kneading faith’s words until
they grumble in caverns.
There is no morning light,
only a keyhole
remembering a door.
Echoes of knuckles on wood
lend their ruckus to storms.
The last bones to take flight
borrow wings from the dead.
Kites burn. Deserts fly.
The dead offer their silence
to bread that’s ovened alive.
