Our student meals, grilled breasts and coke,
while noon withdrew its sweaty fingers.
The rounds about the artless town
as youth’s bored snake devoured its tail.
I can’t forget our home-bound rides
in hefty coaches headed South;
our stops at fictive borders where
your passport color deems your worth.
I left, they moved you to the North,
where desolation broke your breath.
But here, we’re always dipping south,
as mother desert halves the sun.
Dark
Light
In Memory of My Friend M. Al-Hawaj
by Wael al-Mahdi