by Carolina Ebeid
Love remains a kind of present tense. This is how we
describe the scenes in photographs—as though the actions
in them were still happening. My father is throwing a rock
in this picture. My father keeps lions in his chest & they rip
apart a gazelle in this picture.
A man throwing a rock; the image holds an old grammar.
This rock has yet to leave the hand, to measure the
horizontal span from A to B. Nor has it completed the
vertical distance from first line to last line, riding a tangle
of syntax. The photograph captures a skirmish in the West
Bank town of Nablus; the man hurling the rock is my
father insofar as Juliet is the sun.
Copyright ©:
Carolina Ebeid
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