A Celestial Gash
by Sinan Antoon, translated by Sara Elkamel
A red cloud stands alone. Is it lost, and at a loss for where to go? Is it spent; pausing to catch its breath? And what of its color? Is it bleeding? Or has it paused to dress A celestial gash? Minutes later, it retreats— No sign of injury in the sky. Maybe they left together? A red cloud carrying a wound— But to where?
First Published in Words Without Borders (Issue: Fifty States Many Languages, 2025)
This poem feels like someone looking up at a single red cloud and suddenly seeing a whole story inside it.
There’s something gentle in wondering if it’s bleeding or just pausing, as if clouds could get tired the way we do.
The questions make the moment feel quiet and personal, like the speaker is trying to understand a mood in the sky.
That image of a “celestial gash” stays with you soft, strange, a little haunting.
When the cloud slips away, the empty sky feels almost too clean, like it erased something it didn’t want to show.
The thought that it carried its wound with it adds a small ache to the scene.
It’s as if the sky opened for a second, revealed something raw, then closed again.
The poem turns a simple glance upward into something emotional without ever forcing it.
The red cloud becomes a symbol for the quiet hurts we hide, the ones only visible for a moment.
By the end, that last question “But to where?” feels like something we’ve all asked about our own private wounds.
This poem is like a directive to waken the imagination and also to heal.