ONE BED, TWO WARS

In another's homeland, 
on another's New Year's night, 
under another's thundering sky, 
our bodies collapse. 

We share one bed 
and two wars. 

He fears that dying
might last longer than living. 
I reassure him: 
once you get used to it, 
it doesn't hurt anymore.
In history textbooks, 
they call this "resilience." 
That is: 
a grand costume on a dirty body.
It smells like a dog, but at least you're not cold.
You're not cold, are you babe?

In another's homeland, 
on another's New Year's night, 
under another's thundering sky,
the streets are filled with minced meat. 
In the sulfur-smelling air, a crowd condenses, 
voiceless and sexless. 
I close the window. 
We lie down in silence,
in silence: like a house where everyone’s gone 
and the TV’s on.

_Translated by Tamar Marie Boyadjian
Migrant Point, 2024