Sunday mornings are for sex and to catch

on sleep. In the crook of your breath the bed sheets

are tenderness. Your arm reaches out and around our galaxy

of wants
only you can hold them. 
Above the bed hangs a painting in an old timber frame, of a house

in Victorian style, with a pale blue pond, silent

outstretched in the foreground.

On the upper floor, in the left window you may see me drawn

peering down at the mess 
of bed sheets, the cocoon, your crown. I live behind lace

and on Sunday mornings, I try to find my way out. 
After the war, I went back to Beirut and the men that I knew there

had all lost weight. We forgot, they said

to eat. Amid the worry of bombs and guns 
I have not tasted our life.
My father, who carries his sorrow pushed out before him

like an offering we must take up in order to love.
All of my life 
My father, who sat in the backyard, accused me of not listening

the first time I said, I don’t agree. 
high in a house.
In 2006, south Lebanon

still smelt of rubble and smoke. We drove

through the villages, shaking our heads. I saw a white house

lettered with spray paint as high as the roof
CLUSTER BOMBS HERE
A lament, a warning.
When cluster bombs drop, they fly into bright pieces

each primed to explode, and days or years later

children can run into fields, reaching for toys

that erupt in their hands.
I have walked to the brink but no further 
outside

your promise

the most powerful storm. 
We should weep for the children of Lebanon. We should weep

for the quiverful all east and west, born macerating

in madness. 
But we are betrothed to the rage of injustice, barred

from grieving such loss. 
My father once told me of a man who had written

some of my freest times were in prison
I choke at the memory
My father, who delivers his wisdom like unspent

munitions. In my father’s house
there are no mansions. 
And, I am afraid of what I may find in these fields.
                                        The bed sheets, your crown. As I dip into sleep
I smell the bread, in each house of the village.
Even after the world burst into pieces, people turned to each other

made sure each was fed. The men used to say
In Lebanon, no one will starve.