In Beirut one night, Father hit a woman

driving home past curfew

from a soccer game. We hear the story

from Abu George, his childhood friend,

because Father can’t ever admit to his mistakes. 
45 years later, he still refuses to drive,

claims poor eyesight and an unhealed rib

make him dangerous. We play along

because the erratic rain of Sunni missiles

may have propelled our car into her too.
We never ask about the haunting; it sits

between us like a broken bridge, a wet road

on a starless night. We don’t ask why

he didn’t stop to help her, why he revved

the engine, raced his way home.
We don’t wonder if he remembers

the color of her hair, the thick braid

sweeping across her left shoulder. We create

her likeness in our minds—sometimes she’s not

a Muslim, not a farmer’s wife, not a beggar.
Sometimes she’s just a girl who gets up

and walks away.