After Mahmoud Darwish
And they searched her voice, heard the lurch of a bus into the deep muck of a field. And they searched the bus, saw the guts of its vinyl seats. And they searched the guts, smelled the steel springs rusting. And they searched the rust, tasted nothing but the tips of their thumbs. And touching their thumbs to their lips they said well in another three years.
Copyright © 2011 by Idra Novey. Used with permission of the author.