Each Morning I Reassemble My Face

Translated from the Arabic

Each morning, I reassemble my face—

I find my eye in the ashtray,

weeping silently for the homeland.

I lift it out,

brush off the soot,

and nestle it back into its hollow.

My ear, as always,

sits before the television,

waiting to embrace a rogue word of peace.

I pinch it cruelly by its edge,

then fasten it to my skull.

My mouth lurks by the window,

cursing passersby.

My nose meddles in poetry,

and catches the flu.

Notes:

This poem is part of the folio “Broken Lines: A Gathering of Exiled Poets,” curated by Laura Kraftowitz and Edward Salem. Read the rest of the folio in the July/August 2026 issue of Poetry.

Source: Poetry (July/August 2026)