It's beautiful to speak for her; she's dead.
I sit in the scalding bath. I like to change my skin.
This is my sanity: salt and bubbles. To outlive
is to become mockingbird: She was, she was.
I echo her in the water, and in this way I live too,
walking at 2 A.M. in a village in Lebanon,
jackals waiting in the blank land. It is 1959.
Jiddo has a revolver in his pocket, to shoot
whatever might slink from the dark, but nothing does.
Only howls. They sing to keep the animals away.
I like to think she wore her hair in a knot,
high as a planet, that she only loosened it inside,
back in the new house. They barely knew the country.
The walk was over. The walk was forgotten about.
Only I am obsessed with it, stage-directing their lives
like the stranger that I am. It's all gone now: house, body.
What remains is no better than gossip:
animals, a fog that took days to leave her hair.
Death & Loss
Intersectionality & Culture
visually descriptive or figurative language, especially in a literary work
a comparison between two unlike things using the words “like” or “as”