Adi Keissar
Black on black
My grandmother loved me with a thick accentspoke to me Yemeni words
I never understood,
and as a child
I remember
how scared I was to stay alone with her
out of fear that I wouldn’t understand the tongue in her mouth
which she kept singing to me with a smile.
I didn’t understand
a single word she said
the sounds far, far away
even when she spoke closely.
Once
I remember,
she bought me a pineapple yogurt
and after I punched a hole with my thumb
in the thin aluminum lid
and drank it all,
I wanted to say thank you
but didn’t know
which language to use,
so I went to the big garden
plucked a flower
and handed it to her,
sheepishly.
I remember
how much awkwardness stood between us
of one blood
and two muted tongues.
She washed the yogurt cup
silently
filled it with water
and placed the flower in it.
I never understood
a word she said,
my grandmother,
but I understood her hands
I understood her flesh
even though she never
really understood
the words I said
and simply loved my little body
the daughter of her daughter.
And sometimes the heart asks
strange things for itself
like to learn Yemeni
and return to her grave
lay lips to the earth
and cry into it
all that that little girl had to say
and mainly to warn her
that the flower I’d given her
was full of ants.
שחור על גבי שחור
שחור על גבי שחור
בְמִּבְטָא כָבֵד אָהֲבָה אוֹתִּי סָבְתָא שֶלִּי
וְדִּבְרָה אֵלַי דִּבוּרִּים תֵימָנִּיִּים
שֶאַף פַעַם לֹא הֵבַנְתִּי,
וּבְתוֹר יַלְדָה
אֲנִּי זוֹכֶרֶת
אֵיךְ פָחַדְתִּי לְהִּשָאֵר אִּתָהּ לְבַד
מֵחֲ שש שֶלֹּא אָבִּין אֶת הַלָש ון בְפִּי ה
שֶהִּמְשִּיכָה לְנַגֵן אֵלַי בְחִּיוּךְ,
וַאֲנִּי לֹא הֵבַנְתִּי
מִּלָה אַחַת שֶאָמְרָה
וְהַצְלִּילִּים נִּשְמְעוּ רְחוֹקִּים רְחוֹקִּים
גַם כְשֶדִּבְרָה אֵלַי קָרוֹב.
וּפַעַם אַחַת
אֲנִּי זוֹכֶרֶת,
קָנְתָה לִּי פְרִּילִּי אָנָנָס
וְאַחֲרֵי שֶ נקַבְתִּי בָאֲגוּדָל
אֶת עֲטִּיפַת הָאָלוּמִּינְיוּם הַדַקָה
וְשָתִּיתִּי הַכֹל,
רָצִּיתִּי לוֹמַר תוֹדָה
אֲבָל לֹא יָדַעְתִּי
בְאֵיז ו שָפָה צָרִּיךְ
וְיָצָאתִּי לַגִּנָה הַגְדוֹלָה
קָטַפְתִּי פֶרַח
וְהִּגַשְתִּי לָהּ אוֹת ו,
מְבֻּיֶשֶת
אֲנִּי זוֹ כרֶת
כַמָה מְבוּכָה עָמְדָה בֵינֵינוּ
שֶל דָם אֶחָד
וּשְתֵי לְשוֹנוֹת
וְהִּיא שָטְפָה אֶת גְבִּי ע הפְרִּילִּי
בִּשְתִּיקָה
מִּלְאָה ב ו מַיִּם
וְהִּנִּיחָה ב ו אֶת הַפֶרַח שֶנָתַתִּי לָהּ.
אַף פַעַם לֹא הֵבַנְתִּי
מִּלָה מִּמָה שֶאָמְרָה
סָ בתָא שֶלִּי,
אֲבָל אֶת הַיָדַיִּם שֶלָהּ הֵבַנְתִּי
אֶת הַבָשָר שֶלָהּ הֵבַנְתִּי
לַמְרוֹת שֶאַף פַעַם
לֹא הֵבִּינָה בֶאֱמֶת
אֶת הַמִּלִּים שֶאָמַרְתִּי
וְרַק אָהֲבָה אֶת הַגוּף הַקָטָן שֶלִּי
שֶל הַבַת שֶל הַבַת שֶלָהּ.
וְלִּפְעָמִּים הַ לב מְבַקֵש לְעַצְמ ו
דְבָרִּים מוּזָרִּים
כְמ ו לִּלְמֹד תֵימָנִּית
וְלַחְזֹר לַקֶבֶר שֶלָהּ
לְהַצְמִּיד שְפָתַיִּם לְתוֹךְ הָאֲדָמָה
וְלִּצְעֹק פְנִּימָה
אֶת כָל מָה שֶהָיָה לַיַלְדָה הַהִּיא לוֹמַר
וּבְעִּקָר לְהַזְהִּיר אוֹתָהּ
מֵהַפֶרַח שֶהֵבֵא תי לָהּ
פֶרַח מָלֵא בִּנְמָלִּים.
From: Shahor al ga-bay shahor/Black on Black
Publisher: Guerilla Tarbut, Tel Aviv
Black on black
My grandmother loved me with a thick accentspoke to me Yemeni words
I never understood,
and as a child
I remember
how scared I was to stay alone with her
out of fear that I wouldn’t understand the tongue in her mouth
which she kept singing to me with a smile.
I didn’t understand
a single word she said
the sounds far, far away
even when she spoke closely.
Once
I remember,
she bought me a pineapple yogurt
and after I punched a hole with my thumb
in the thin aluminum lid
and drank it all,
I wanted to say thank you
but didn’t know
which language to use,
so I went to the big garden
plucked a flower
and handed it to her,
sheepishly.
I remember
how much awkwardness stood between us
of one blood
and two muted tongues.
She washed the yogurt cup
silently
filled it with water
and placed the flower in it.
I never understood
a word she said,
my grandmother,
but I understood her hands
I understood her flesh
even though she never
really understood
the words I said
and simply loved my little body
the daughter of her daughter.
And sometimes the heart asks
strange things for itself
like to learn Yemeni
and return to her grave
lay lips to the earth
and cry into it
all that that little girl had to say
and mainly to warn her
that the flower I’d given her
was full of ants.
From: Shahor al ga-bay shahor/Black on Black
Black on black
My grandmother loved me with a thick accentspoke to me Yemeni words
I never understood,
and as a child
I remember
how scared I was to stay alone with her
out of fear that I wouldn’t understand the tongue in her mouth
which she kept singing to me with a smile.
I didn’t understand
a single word she said
the sounds far, far away
even when she spoke closely.
Once
I remember,
she bought me a pineapple yogurt
and after I punched a hole with my thumb
in the thin aluminum lid
and drank it all,
I wanted to say thank you
but didn’t know
which language to use,
so I went to the big garden
plucked a flower
and handed it to her,
sheepishly.
I remember
how much awkwardness stood between us
of one blood
and two muted tongues.
She washed the yogurt cup
silently
filled it with water
and placed the flower in it.
I never understood
a word she said,
my grandmother,
but I understood her hands
I understood her flesh
even though she never
really understood
the words I said
and simply loved my little body
the daughter of her daughter.
And sometimes the heart asks
strange things for itself
like to learn Yemeni
and return to her grave
lay lips to the earth
and cry into it
all that that little girl had to say
and mainly to warn her
that the flower I’d given her
was full of ants.
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