From Another Room to Live In: 15 Contemporary Arab Poets, which will be published this month by Litmus Press. Translated from the Arabic by Sam Wilder.

You can tell one who’s been destroyed before
from where you drink coffee and watch the passersby.
You can tell a person whose back has been set straight
or whose neck has been hinged back to his shoulders.
You can probably guess what the artery looks like
grafted from his wrist to his heart,
or catch a glimmer from the imported pins in his knee.
You’ll see the sincerity in his step.
It might be slow.
He walks, usually, in a straight line
never turning his eyes to you. He’s completely locked.
It’s easier with someone who’s been scattered.
The one who’s been scattered turns around
like he’s looking for a part still missing.
He may look sweet when he’s turning
because he’s glued together with paste.
Or he might be bitter, if he’s gone a bit too far
pouring mortar to fill the gaps between his organs.
I don’t think that behind the window you can tell
the ones who have been ripped before.
Nothing really tells them apart.
Maybe each one just resembles himself
like pressed seals torn from envelopes
ending up in the collections of the lovers of stamps.