Ishtar Gate
The doors
had no names.
I was the one
who named them,
so I could cross.
For a door without a name
is hard to return to.
And yet,
I did not fully trust the name.
For I
am not light,
to return
twice.
I name things
so they do not escape me.
And every time
I name them,
they turn
into an image.
I look at them,
and I change.
Ishtar descended
into the underworld
to retrieve Tammuz.
As for me,
I descend
for no one.
I descend
because
I am no longer certain.
I said:
We
name things
so they may
return to us.
Then
I opened the door.
The fall
was faster
than tying myself to a thread.
And lighter
than a sheet of paper
trying to remain still.
I repeated,
like someone holding on
to the last ray of light:
“The most beautiful sea
is the one
we have not yet sailed.”
As if Nâzım Hikmet
had extended toward me
a thread
from a distant exile.
.
.
.
.
Then
I fixed.
I do not know
how long the fall lasted.
A second?
Or a longer exposure
to time.
There were no footsteps.
Only broken lines of light
outside the depth of field.
I followed them,
until
a long shadow appeared,
holding a clock.
He was waiting for me
at the first gate.
He did not say
who he was.
And I did not ask.
He said:
— What do you carry with you?
I said:
My name.
He said:
— You will not need it here.
So I removed it.
At the second gate
he said:
— And what remains?
I said:
My story.
He asked:
— Is your story truly yours,
or only
what you remember
about yourself?
I remained silent.
I left
my old negatives
at the threshold.
At the third gate
he said:
— What remains?
I said:
My language.
He smiled.
— Words come
after development.
So I left
my language.
At the fourth gate
he said:
— What remains?
I said:
My certainty.
He looked at me,
as though
examining
an old negative.
Then he said:
— Is that knowledge,
or faith?
So I removed both.
At the fifth gate
he said:
— What remains?
I said:
My desire
to reach Alice.
He said:
— Do you want her,
or do you want
to stop running?
I did not know.
So I left
my desire.
At the sixth gate
he said:
— What remains?
I said:
Me.
He said:
— And who is this self,
after you have erased
all its images?
I did not answer.
At the seventh gate,
his silence
grew long.
Then he said:
— What remains?
I touched myself.
No name.
No memory.
No language.
No certainty.
I said:
Nothing.
The shadow
stretched toward me.
And said:
— What remains?
I said:
Nothing.
The shadow
grew longer.
So I asked him:
What remains, then?
He said:
— The question
you still do not know
how to ask.
