Malak Mattar, Untitled (detail), 2024, charcoal on paper
Lyre
Life had, the astrologer said,
but one curse: I could not
go mad.
When I heard the music
I cannot repeat
I was halfway home
five years into the voyage.
Their voices were honey
measure by measure
dropped on the small of my back.
I married the ropes
as well as the mast
my writhing as ranting
a plea as my shouts.
Today I recall not one word.
When I beached I made thanks.
I walked home to the face
without an adventure
to which I was wedded.
