They had to remove it and off we went:
A transparent image of bones chained together;
Half face, three-quarters, full face of the fingers stretched out,
fingers without recognizable lines,
isolated, evading the purpose of the camera, its direct focus.
In their search for obstinate glass shards, the surgeons behead the whorls.
Now I’m thinking about that last border,
How the maps of beheaded whorls
triumphantly helped me cross.
Under the surgeons’ scalpel my hand is dreaming.
Stopped as an “unrecognized alien.”
The lines were faded,
So was my identity.
That unfeeling mass of muddled stitches on my middle finger
Offended the border official.
These lights have kept my eyes wide open
how many hours?
I haven’t forgotten my name
But the nurse doesn’t believe me.
English has gone loose in my mouth,
It overflows, a child who wets herself.
The nurse asks my name again,
we all suffer from stuttering, I say.
A finger, a radiology image,
border officers, identification machines.
I tell her my name,
she doesn’t hear me,
I cannot see my finger.
Light’s reflection on the layers of white bandage blinds me.
Your finger is as it should be, she says.
translated by Fatemeh Shams and Leonard Schwartz
- - - - - - alternative translation - - - - -
Fingers at the Border
[In the Operating Room]
The transparent image of bones chained together from each corner;
Half face, three quarters face, full face of the fingers that are stretched out more than in reality, fingers without any recognizable lines,
secluded, they evaded the camera’s purpose, its direct focus.
In their search for obstinate recalcitrant glass shards, the surgeons behead the whorls
I’m thinking of the last border, when the intertwined whorls on the tip of my fingers triumphantly helped me cross.
Now how is life going to be with these beheaded, chaotic whorls?
These dates, these reminders are good for nothing, when no way is left to touch them
with this unfeeling mass, these muddled stitches, that struggle to bring my flesh and veins and skin together,
From this angle it’s not possible to write with any confidence
I have to change places
Under the surgeons’ scalpel my hand has gone sleep and is dreaming
I remember a traveling glass splinter that sometimes walked under my skin,
that wandered, and waved, and went off till tomorrow.
[In the Recovery Room]
These long wide lights have kept my eyes wide open
I try to make the nurse understand that I haven’t forgotten my name
English has gone loose in my mouth, it’s brimful, it overflows, like a child who wets herself out of fear. I say to the nurse, “absurdity and stitches are similar, they both stitch the voids together”.
She asks my name again
I say, “We all suffer from stuttering: a finger, a radiology image, stitches, border officers, identification machines”.
Then, I tell her my name.
And raise my right hand; the light’s reflection on the layers of the white bandage blinds me.
My finger is as it should be.
