Old Country

The bomb went off in your day,

my night. I wake to deaths

not yours, for the newsman

doesn’t say American, doesn’t say

woman, and the words not said

are those that let morning begin.

Beirut was just a myth until you left,

a land my Sito fled, then closed

her mouth around. It’s different

from the rest, you said, as if

a country small as Connecticut

could ignore its neighbors’ knocking,

as if tribal feuds were not interred

in shallow graves, and I had not conspired

with the Maronites, the Shiites,

the PLO, on reasons why

you were wrong to go. When you

threw the ocean over your shoulder,

you vowed to stay a year or two,

just until his visa came through,

and he could wander Midtown

without his crucifix on show. Now,

every Saturday, his relatives

sweep you into weddings at beach resorts,

nights you fold into airplanes

to chiffon across my lawn.

But how can I revel in these brides

who arrive on thrones, or their hired

flame eaters, or their eight-foot

sword-cut cakes, or the seven hundred

shots of arak in their honor, when,

with every debke, you retreat

further into the dark’s full skirt?

They’ve taught you to smooth

into a leg, a kick, a forward

stomp, those same steps my mother

It’s nearly Valentine’s again,

one year since the death of Hariri,

when the streets bared their teeth,

fossilized in the rubble. The protests

you pretended not to attend are over,

and the revolution’s ire has grown

as rare as the cedar. But don’t tell me

bombs are only for the marked,

for these days only begin that way.

Months from today, you’ll ride

sidesaddle to the cathedral, your train

gliding above concrete, fresh and taut

as hospital sheets, your diamonds blazing

above Romans fallen on Phoenicians,

above Arabs soldered to Ottomans,

their hoary cities all hot for resurrection,

one good detonation. I’ve heard among

these bones lie maids of old Rome,

who gave their lives as decoys

for their brides. How startled

they’d be to find you in strata

of lace and silk, no one to walk

first, no one to hold down the road

that tries to rise as you pass.