And my scream is made of strange edges
like a complicated key.
It will be hard to open the world with it,
hard and hurting sleep.
Try again, come again.
Leaves on the tree rustle suddenly.
They know a bit before us
about the coming wind. Try again,
there’s a rear door, through the garden.
Perhaps a miracle of quiet convincing speech
that will bring forth water from a rock. Not
striking, just speaking.
Translation by Robert Alter
Photographer: Martina Nicolls
MARTINA NICOLLS