Friday, October 14, 2016

A friend from Beirut

tells me I have a way
of moving my head that
is neither a yes or a no.

He says it's an Indian thing.

"It means ok," I tell him,
"It means I get you."

We are here only
for three months
in this city which must
be the obverse of Beirut.

The first time
you'd held my hand here,
autumn had melted into fingers,
and all that was unwished for years
was wished again.

That night,
the river refused its course
and rushed into my veins,
dislodging grief in its way.

Who knew October was
for wishfulness,

a season of gestures
keeping time at bay.

Next month,
when you will leave,
the river will return and
the past will colour the book again,

do you think then, I will
be either a yes or a no,
or realizing, again,
to understand is to be
somewhere between.

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