bil salama.

my last morning in libya, and the sky is so blue i want to cry. i want to break off a piece and stir it in my tea. take it home and put it on my dresser. give it to my father and tell him, "here, some libyan sky. it misses you. it says come home soon."

i danced on the veranda today.

the wind whipped from every direction. rain water puddled in pools around my feet. my aunt told me i was going to die. it was lovely.

misurata

is a city torn open, but not broken. homes hang from hinges like bullet-ridden hearts.

day seven.

december nineteenth.

-

winter in libya is an impersonal thing,

the proverbial croak of death before

the birth of spring, people freeze

retreat into rooms, under blankets

relationships left to hang from strings,

libyan winters are chilling things.

day six.

december 18

-

today, the sky

tried to drown us all

forty-two years of famine

has left the country parched,

the ground is thirsty

mouth overflowing, 

the clouds pour her more

than she can take.

streets flooded, the city

is a woman pregnant,

two weeks over due,

swollen

but hopeful.

i go to sleep

and dream of swimming

through deep water. 

day five.

december 17

-

you love me less now,

and i understand.

i think,

i think i may

love you less 

now too.

day four.

december sixteenth.

-

fashloom is a bride with a scratched face,

an abused daughter being married off

to a merciful man, she is glowing

draped in red and green,

lights drip from her neck 

and wrists like gold,

her mahr hanging from 

her earlobes, shining.

her cousins dance in the street,

clapping and stamping,

singing songs

to send her off

to her new life.