last night your lover tells you he
will follow you seventeen hours past
the sun to a city you only whisper
about in your sleep.
*
for six weeks you’ve drifted through
sand to find that there is no grass
that can be greener because there is
no real grass at all. the wadi fish eat
your tears while you pretend to hear
these cave echoes forever.
*
you collect shells along the shoreline
at low tide. some broken, a few
somehow entirely whole, but most
with a little sand stuck
in the crevices to remind you of what
you’re forced to leave behind.
he watches you cradle the bundle across
your chest like an infant, precious and unable
to fathom what a fall could mean.
what does it mean
to let go.
*
sometimes when you dream
about the way the mountains peak
into the night sky, your mind pushes
you into a Bedouin home where
you learn the meaning of family
from strangers. how many kisses
on how many cheeks will you give
to never wake from this moment.
*
there are other times when
you close your eyes to dream
yet wake to find
that this is the only time
you are not dreaming.
you sit and eat your dates in odd numbers
to be sure, for safe keeping.
*
when your lover drives you out
of the sands and closer to the place
you call home, you’re reminded of the man
you left there, in that city, and how
he is still there, sick from six weeks
of waiting for you to love him, and how
you can’t.
the loose ends of a house with
tomato plants, a few hens, a lamb,
three children, and him all hang
with the loose ends of now. and now
there are not enough hands to swing
between both. between who you were
before and before you became yourself,
again. you close you eyes to fathom
what this fall could mean. you open
and let go.