Dream Pilgrimage

In a dream, I crawled out from a dark cave
and drank from a golden goblet, blood

trickling over its leaf-etched sides.
The warm metal coated my tongue

and filled my throat. The blood was mine
and, as the interpreter of dreams,

I could see moonlight shimmered
on the surface of that sanguine sea

and foreshadowed the dark
distress that befell my nation.

In the distance, I saw the mountain
where Muhammad received the verses.

It shined a light on my forehead. I listened.
I carved a window in my heart. Its light

shone through me. I asked the mountain:
at which site do I cleanse my heart?

In which nation will I be welcome?
Is my nation where jinn roam

from shrine to battlefield, dousing the light?
Is my nation where humans roam

from shrine to battlefield, dousing the light?
The mountain was silent, dim.

The twin lighthouses in my knees
lead me to the mountain in my dream.

I had long forgotten to light the kerosene.

When a City Falls

The fallen city is full:
bleary eyes, dazed goats,
schools hidden in hearts.

The muezzin calls sinners
to their knees. His calls,
like clockwork, disturb

the living from the dust
of a fallen city. Trembling,
they name their God

on their parched lips. The fallen
muezzin sings to crumbling
minarets, telling tales of a city alive.

On fire. The charred city
masks its coffers with the musk
of the starving muezzin.

The starving city falls
to its coffers and steals
bread from its banks.

The bankrupt city faces
cracks in the foundation
of minarets that dot the sunset.

Tea leaves swirl in the muezzin’s cup.
They say, “don’t stop singing.”
The fallen holy book, held together

by a fraying string at its spine,
cries in a river. The fraying city splurges
on the duplexes of diplomats abroad.