Gregory Djanikian: Questions for a Late Night

And what if the soldiers came

shouting and clattering, pulling you

out of your house for the journey

which had no clear destination?

What if the road you had to follow

looking for fruit trees, spring water,

had to be imagined each morning,

no jacarandas offering you shade,

the deserts wafting you

like a husk in the simoom?

What if the granaries were leveled, the rivers dry,

young girls bruised in the thighs,

the bird-like men without feet?

What would the darkness bring you—

wolf howls, hoof beats

sticking you like needles—

if all you wanted of it

was a place to enter, disguised

from the smallest reflection?

What if there were no night,

the heavens dismantled, the earth

lit by a hundred suns?

What if you were the perpetual witness

walking without sleep

where everyone desired it

and no one dared close his eyes?

What words could you say

to remember the sound of breakage?

In what place would you touch your body

to feel your body touching you back?