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Veronica Golos | News of the Nameless

Written By هشام الصباحي on Friday, 5 June 2015 | 05:56

News of the Nameless

I climb marble steps worn to the shape of waves.
I follow those with the loudest voices.

I am a dry broom
an old man sweeps his floor with; the sunlight speaks in Braille.

All Bethlehem is a child’s tale: the crisis-crossed road,
the man in the white robe, the donkey,

the already dangerous dust.
Now the news is full of splinters.

Graffiti scars my palms, my wrists—
I walk through the library of forgetting.

I am my own news and nothing’s
*   *  *

Who was he, naked and bound on the ground?
He is gone now.

Disappeared into the crowd of other news,
disappeared into someone’s home,

where he sits, hands flat on the table—
pierced by a brilliant sun.

Where is the solider, the helmet, the hands, the threat
that pulled him naked from his cell

held him
as the choker clicked like a timepiece?

Who carries the dead weight, the iron cuffs,
the chair in the center of the room,

the whisper behind the earlobe?
I hear particulates strung along air, vibrating:

What is his name?
What is his name?


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