To the Women Torn Apart
- A poem by Nada Menzalji
- Aug 1, 2018
- 1 min read
She washed herself in the street.
The river couldn’t be reached.
She took her clothes away in public
but she wasn’t naked:
there was a thick curtain of isolation and madness.
The people who never noticed her once
saw her with the eyes the wolf,
a large piece of flesh.
It wasn’t nudity,
but she trembled
like a fig falling from a tree,
crushed, before she was ripe.
The wolf clung to her.
She didn’t hurt more.
This poem first appeared in translation on Whispering Dialogue
