Old Sana'a

Sometimes I am a prisoner of my body, of my mind.
I carry my history around,
heavier and heavier,
like a washerwoman's bundle around my shoulders,
Garments.
Some beautiful, to be sure.
Others dirty and barely wearible.
One day my load shall become too heavy
and I shall sit down and die.
I thought I would die yesterday,
when the crazy big steel bird I was riding in
came in for a bad landing and then
SWOOPED up again,
even when we touched down (finally)
it was uneven;
Praying that I would be given time
to repent of the things I've done
(the things I've done with you).
And now I sit on the rooftop
smelling the faint shades of cardomun,
watching the birds and the minarets,
and the mountains which are
carelessly sculpted by erosion.

I search for release,
Which I find only in your arms.

Last Night's Story

I observed him in the crowd,
coming towards me,
much more pleasurable to look at than the others.
Who says that true love doesn't exist?

We eat. And then we do other things and
I am left feeling cleaner, by the end,
than I was at the start of the evening;
Perhaps for the first time, in a long time.
Washed clean again, no wonder we said we felt no shame!

How could we?