by Suhrab Sirat, translated by Divya Mehrish

I am soul, eyes                  my shadow haunts
my dreams      wounds            these dreams:
nights of wet mirrors;       lips pressed against
reflection;        I kiss my lips,       I kiss my eyes.
My lips are wounded.             I am a time
of poison:       each season reckons
the cost       of my survival.    Scorpio pierces
and Libra         passes       and I am    alone.
When I call     myself Sagittarius       in sleep, 
I dream of Cupid—angel boy,            love    
is an angel. I am          wounded.      The earth    
between           my toes, between lips     spins      
on the axis       of the bull’s     horns. Hearts—
we have           hearts; this       is a heart; 
you have heart.            Now,         I have lost 
my heart—wounded.     What if I told you 
this earth         lost      my heart? What if
I told you     my heart             lost this earth? 
Child of no      country, of no earth.    I bury
myself in lips—I am         alone.    Who 
knew home      could wound? My     home    
is wounded. The alphabet       in fingertips 
fades   into dust and blood,        my eyes
see blood,        my eyes are     blood. 
I talk into empty          palms, into     tired,
empty hands.   When help         hibernates,
when conscience         is dormant, 
the light           in my cheeks,       the life
in my eyes                   dies a little. I am
wounded by all               that I own;   all 
that is     mine       is wounded.     Stripped   
of this language,          this tongue,
these dreams,                these memories,
these prayers, this name—Suhrab—
I am wounded.            I carry these
wounds      on the shoulder     of my soul.