Look back there, our voices dissolving 
 in cardamom-spiced coffee. 

 This desert night is the most silent 
 of places—no lights, cars, no screen 

 doors slamming family into home. 
 An Egyptian hare passes quietly 

 in her search for food. 
 We lean forward, into the wave of night, 

 our pale faces sharpening 
 in moonlight, dust making light 

 tangible on lips, throats— 
 filling ears with directions that sound so 

 easy—a Bedouin song of memory, 
 a commandment that’s simple enough— 

 so hard now to read at home, 
 bathed, streetlights buzzing and the bus 

 passing every hour.  What was it I thought 
 I knew about myself back there? 

 I touch my empty ear shell, remnant 
 of a long dead sea.

Emily Wall