(I)
I’m 21, bottom fish lip snagged upwards,
wind clapping through the open car door.
Upwards—rotting peach melting in the sky,
dribbling so close
I can taste it.

I’m 21, I left the oranges out back home,
10,000 miles away, shriveled and stone.
From the airplane, we saw ants on eggshells,
here, the bone-plates are left out to dry.

And you,
shoulder weighing on my shoulder,
eyes a maze of mountains,
veil shimmering like ant skin.
We could make fruit salad tonight.
I could bubble fishlipped
through Arabic.
You could sing these tower blocks down.

(II)
It was Abraham who learnt that sacrifice was done on a mountainside,
Ishmael didn’t die that day,
but King James still bleached them both white.
Embalmed in leather and wrapped tight with
silk between the pages.
A prophet’s knife became a guillotine
a thousand miles high,
for a preacher-bird on his podium.

It was Solomon who learnt that death could outrun the wind,
and here it comes.
Unhooks your lips from one end to another
Hands me your smile like
red and white strips of peppermint.

So sweet, these American giants
will eat good tonight.
Wade ankle deep in brown tower blocks
until they’re muddy with red rivers.
Everyone I know has heard of
                 Salmon Fishing in the Yemen.
So, we could be fish or ants.
Crushed for food or fun or
just because they couldn’t hear
us from so far high.
Couldn’t feel how a war can turn a country mute.
No playgrounds, no chorus of chatter,
just handfuls of earth passed under desks,
                                                            until they slip
                                                                                    between sticky fingers.