I can already feel bits of it leaving me,

swirling down the drain. Each sunset,

the garbage collecting in the street, the smells of the

open grills and the handmade bread in the medina,

the last footsteps of the night, the adhan

clearing the noise from my head each time I was awake at 5 am.


my protesting nails, so deep in its skin,

its leaving me!

no words, no pictures, no old and unwashed

laundry or empty suitcases

or twist-tied bags of spices can bring it back to me


the old, the poor, the singers, the blind

the rich, the banks, the embassies

the pool halls, the Parliament

collapsing in on itself,

melding together like

blots of oil paint

a smattering of birds in the sky