Misr

My eyes trace the script

of Arabic as you grasp my arm and steer me

through Cairo’s scrolling traffic.

From above settles the call:

Allahu akbar, Allahu akbar.

Until language slips like desert wind

past minarets, until language sleeps,

there is no storm so tenuous

as the scrape of swirling sand,

this whirlwind of staccato words

strangely seasoned by Ramadan.

Language slips through desire, steaming like tea —

just after — alone in Mohandiseen,

when desire slips through language.

You hear my whispered voice:

Qalb (the heart that beats).

To love in a land without language

is to learn to live small in the world,

small and observant; wrapped and subdued

like prayer. To tug our sounds until we shake

each other's echoes. Until

exploding cinders glow in winter's gray,

glow in the hushed shhh of faith.