In early spring, here in the Rub 'al Khali, Gabriel swings his goad over the humped backs of swollen clouds. They roar like angry camels and thunder toward the fields of the fellahin. At night, I dream of grass so green it speaks. But at noon, even the dry chatter of djinn leaves the wadis. The sun lowers its bucket, though my body is the only well for miles. A dropped stone calls back from the bottom with the voice of a starving locust: Make it your wish, habibi, and the rain will walk over the dry hills of your eyes on tiptoes as the poppies weave themselves into a robe to mantle the broad shoulders of the desert. The words uncoil like smoke from a smothered fire, rising leisurely out of me as though to mark where a castaway has come aground at last. And yet I have not spoken. My voice limps on old bones, its legs too dry and brittle to leap like a barking locust into song. But I imagine what was said or might be said by some collective throat about the plowman loving best the raw, turned earth, or the caliph longing for his desert lodge, where ghoulem whisper like the wind at prayer, and poppies bow their gaudy heads toward Mecca, each one mumbling a different word for dust.
Song of Myself
I am a stubborn ox dreaming of rain as the drover's fingers drum around my eyes. But no: the wet hum of flies distracted me, and now the plow has drifted from the line I meant to follow. See where the damp leather of the reins has worn the callus on my left forefinger raw? Or was it the dry, ash handle of my hoe? I can hear the steel head singing as it strikes rocky ground, the fresh-turned earth swallowing showers of sparks. The tip of my tongue goes dry. I touch my lips to the soil as I once touched you, here and there. A single knot of dirt crumbles slowly in my mouth with the taste of sweet butter dripping from your thumb. This ground will raise a heavy crop. I am the wheat that flowed around your waist like water. I am that lonely knot of earth.