Because the faces in our photographs                 have been bleached to cataracts. Because the authorof our oldest surviving chronicle ended his days in exile,                 composing to mountains. Because I once mistranslated                                 a line of poetry as loosely created creature.Because no one witnessed those tongueless, swollen ghosts                 dragging themselves onto new soil. Because someone I love                                 told me it is sometimes safer to let things go                 untranslated. Because forgetting is a military tactic.Because, when a word is removed, all we have is the air                 it displaced. Because what goes unrecorded, unbodied,                                 is still part of the architecture. Because to disperseis to each break off a corner of a country, to keep it                                 below the throat. Because the redness and fish smell                                                 of memory is uncitable.Because we do not need proof of our women                 to build their temples, to light fires inside.Because no one is ready to map a city as it buckles.                 Because a soundless escape requires you to take only                                 what will fit against your skin. Because official death counts                 change, depending. Because our personal effects                                 are makeshift altars, the cores of cut fruit,our most favoured sources of light.