Fargo Tbakhi
absence makes the heart.
like water, i learn what shape to take

based on the space i must fill today.
i do not believe in object permanence.

i do not believe that dogs are my best friend.
i do believe in ghosts. you can fall in love with them.

on days i feel too solid,
i wear the border around my neck: black and white,

fishnet patterned, tasseled. this way
you do not have to wonder in which language my blood

moans. my veins a cyst filled to the brim.
like an arcade claw machine, i am far too good

at letting go: you do not text me for a day and i give you
a viking's funeral. i have learned that grief is better

when quick and efficient:
there is too much of it too often.

i was born a taurus in the year of the ox:
doubly stubborn, my feet grow three inches into the dirt

everywhere i walk. i am rooted.
what can i say? years ago, my grandfather dug

his heels in against the settlers. as for me,
i am half seraph and half queer.

i have taken the liberty of stitching
a dotted line into my skin. this way

you do not have to wonder which country
you're kissing. i do believe words

emerge from walls, not the other way
around. i do believe in parallel universes.

i believe that in one of them,
i belong somewhere. in one of them,

my grandfather and i at this very moment
are comparing shoe sizes. in one of them

i kiss his soles and taste a dirt i can name.
i wear the family photo album around my neck,

and the faces become new to me again each time
i open it. if i am not looking at something

it is not real — this makes me a baby. this makes me
palestinian. this makes me difficult to love.

what can i tell you? the things that made us remake us
again and again. i am nothing if not exhausted.

i believe in missiles. i believe in tunneling
underneath walls. i believe that god, too, has kissable feet.

what can i say? years ago, my grandfather looked away
and when he looked back, home was gone.

i do believe that if i do not blink,
if i only keep on looking,

it will come back.
from the journal MIZNA
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Color head shot of Kathryn Smith, coupled with the cover of her book, Self-Portrait with Cephalopod
"The Sky Felt Apocalyptic"

Poet Kathryn Smith reflects on her new collection, Self-Portrait with Cephalopod. "I believe that poetry should tell the truth—hence the dark images. But I also believe that poetry is a way of presenting the world we want to see, of putting forth the world we hope for. A collection full of death and decay and environmental collapse and anxiety—that collection would be honest, but what would it leave you with?" 

via CHICAGO REVIEW OF BOOKS
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Cover of the anthology, Wretched Strangers, in which today's poem was published
What Sparks Poetry:
Vivek Narayanan on "Ayodhya"

"Every translation is a collaboration among many, including all those who have come to this terrain before you.  I am indebted even to those translations whose approach I reject because they gave me the benefit of having something to reject.
 
If nothing is to be lost, something must first be gained."
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