they would have us believe
that a pair of suns will set tonight,
one for you and one for I
and in the evening
we’ll be gazing at two moons,
one for you and one for I
with two sets of stars playing on the reflection on two sets of Niles
breathing in two sets of air
mother nature splitting her wares
a separate storm for you and I
a separate balmy/cold/sweltering day for you and I
but
never mind
these streets will miss you,
and no matter what others may feel
there are new cracks on the avenues of Khartoum,
hollowed sobs within these walls,
unexplained gushes of water through these fractures that taste eerily of tears
and all these expatriates wherever they may be,
I tell you,
they were enveloped in a maddening aroma
of sputtering rain drops fused with dust
releasing a hiss
of a perfume of a moist sandy spring
breathing in
gulping
choking
watching their enamored youth
dancing
amongst persevered memories of
simple people
simple homes
simple times
simple hopes
and with that came a loud Crack
looking down in confusion there
right there
a gash of woe on their breast bone
followed with
a sunken cry of remorse
but
no matter what they say
each night I await
like an anxious lover
and he appears
my courier
the moon
grabbing on to his pallid lapels
I bring him closer
leaning
I murmur
‘Tell them, no sets of suns or moons or stars or oceans or armies or politicians or apathetic citizens or borders can separate us, for you are a part of me as I am part of you because there is no beginning and there is no end to our union, and I promise, as sure and true as the current of these ageless tides, time may shift and fracture us to unrecognizable pieces but see I’ve dipped these memories in bullion and no matter how ravaged, how unraveled, how hopeless you will eternally come back to me as I will come back to you’
each night
this vow I echo back to him
and he shimmers this to the Nile
in her vastness
washing up the shores
unbeknownst
to the
group of giggling women washing the days clothes
or that forlorn girl rubbing at her aching back as she fills her pot
that squinting fisherman as he tugs at his nets
the aging amjad driver as he stoops to make his wudu
the civil servant chucking the butt of his cigarette
village kids screeching in delight as they take a cooling dip,
she
would lap at their ankles,
nip at their fingertips,
tease the soles of their feet,
spill down their bodies,
envelop them
in a watery embrace
of the promise
Nubian(Q) 