My hair, black
now, was Achilles hair
When I was a child.
Or maybe Mamluk, maybe Crusader blood,
Though Napoleon could only throw
His hat at the walls of Acre—
Or maybe the ischemic morning
I rode the school bus
Heading for the desert on a field trip—
It doesn’t matter. My mother intuited loss
And stroked my head before I waved
goodbye.
In the desert
I ate the figs my father had left
By my shoes the night before.
In the desert
Camels are ships
Parting asphalt, and the school
bus
Smashed into them and killed
So many children aboard.
When the bus returned
Mothers filled the schoolyard
With wailing,
Smacking their cheeks,
Pulling their hair,
Counting their children.
But there were none missing.
It was only rumor. There was only
Nightfall and my mother, ready,
Wearing black, my hair now,
Maybe Canaanite or Bedouin,
Maybe Fatemah or Zaineb.
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