Baladna

We are who we are,
and home is home
to keep the seasons dreaming
to remind us of
ahweh, zaatar, khoubiz, kaak—
the common things 

I am no longer sure what I see:
a field of wheat or a field of olive trees,
a herd of sheep or a burning mountain,
not sure if it matters
now that I stand alone
at the corner of a small road
somewhere between my grandfather
and what seems to be my present…
Am I as old, as young,
as sad, as torn, as strange, as sorry
as those I have lost?
I try to remember all that has been offered to me:
winkled bed sheets, library passes, old passports,
ports we stopped at for an hour…
we are who we are; are we who we are? 

We write a ballad to celebrate ourselves, baladna
and wonder, is that what it’s like
to dance in Arabic…

 First published in Crab Orchard Review.