I wait for a curse,

a sad and final gunburst

before it’s time to leave.

There are figs

my mother gathered

for breakfast,

 

the sins of brothers

that weren’t sins before

chameleon-sprayed

 

on the walls

of Al-Jami al-Kabir,

where the girl I loved

 

sold carnations

in the quiet light; her hair

still sings. My absence

 

goes with deep regret:

the sunsets at Benghazi

I might never see

 

again, osban served

with lemon, my mother’s skin,

my father’s cigars

 

lying silently

among a pile of histories

to be forgotten.

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