This Wrist of Mine

Rokhl Korn

So flimsy and gaunt this wrist of mine has become,
it seems like it could no more bear the sight of you,
as if it could be clasped completely, by a strap say,
by just a single, flowing teardrop.

My fingers, like ten forgotten commandments
from the burnt bush of our love,
frame my face—ten bloody signs,
like milestones to the last, inmost depth of pain.

But the deep, gaunt lines of my palms,
like harrowed veins, my bliss bleeding out of them,
still they flow faraway to unknown shores
seeking your lips, your smile and the sight of you.

translated from the Yiddish by Tanjil Rashid