Dream Where I find My Roof

By | 5 December 2019

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.

This entry was posted in 94: BAYT and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

Related work:

  • No Related Posts Found

Comments are closed.