I dream it, the dream my yearning self

            sleeps for. I’m at my own 
birthday party celebrating with

            all the father figures I have known— 
the nurturers who’ve made me feel loved,

            and my true father, Uppo who haunted me 
with his absence. They file in hand-in-hand—

            black tuxedos, white shirts, bowties,
a few, those who taught me to be reckless,

            buttons undone, ties loosened—
ready to take the floor for the dabke,

            line dance born of Lebanese villagers 
gathered on housetops with drums

            and ouds—music to stomp straw, 
mud, branches into sturdy roofs—

            protection from the volatile sky.
As other guests arrive, I turn

            to greet them—just long enough 
that when I look back, the men are gone!—

            before I could tell them 
though their presence blessed me with sheltering

            hours—there was Sittu, always Sittu 
who viewed this granddaughter with eyes

            sharp as bee stings, her words, termites 
gnawing through my roof. How even so, I clung

            to her apron to learn the language of sustenance, 
having already learned the language of hunger.

            I would tell you how it felt to only imagine you,
how the night sky opened its inviting buffet of stars

            that never drew close enough to feed me.