At the mosque’s entrance 3:30 a.m. Syrian women beg wearing black gloves. Your father’s grandmother was Syrian before the country was ash. Before the government turned to kill its people. What incites that internal blaze? What says it is me I will take or not me but those whom I claim? We are claimed after meditation. We are walking an empty street after pretending to play drums. After I recognize the heather in air after we swim in a pool surrounded by azaleas after your mother smiles observing us after we sleep in her house fields of sunflowers. I’m on a bus watching them sway. I’m forgetting the distance the inevitable loss I will hold warm as snow whitens the green. What will you hold? What will you see beyond your hands? Streets lined with jacarandas that morph to pines to a self beneath ice that wolves trample silently? Someone still begs. Someone still believes in our innate generosity. You are waiting for me but refuse to say it. You believe in returns. You believe in the planet’s roundness. You believe in gravity’s inaudible assurance. You believe in what I doubt.
She visits me when the lights are out, when the sun is loving another part of the world. She passes through the net I sleep under like a cloud its holes are easily navigable. Her buzzing tells me that she doesn't want my legs arms cheeks or chest. No. She craves adventure wanting to travel through the dark canal the spiraling cave where earthquakes are wind. Her prize is in sight the gelatinous mass controlling this machine. How beautiful she thinks it is her needle mouth filling with water. Her children will know physics geometry will understand English Spanish perhaps Portuguese. They will be haunted their whole lives by trees guns and a boom that won't cease. She cries before drinking the fluid is salty-sweet. Oh if my mother had done this for me I would have lived.