Listening 9. As

In Syria

it must be hot, the sky cloudless, all moisture from a median of weeds, jasmine pale as the limestone it entangles, and dusted with sand everywhere, blinds on windows, damask pillowcases, as if they could protect

what seeps through pores and scalp, tasted in tea and kibbe, grainy enough to smooth stone and wood gradually as memory sliced clean as a razor flays a lamb into strips until it’s not

the bleating kid. Before its butchering, I meant to count each animal to note who hid or wandered lost in the desiccated East where its carcass rots, scavenged by vultures.

I meant to do more than graze the ancient sites— Arwad, Maalula, Mar Musa, Ebla, now vague citadels, shrines, frescoes, temples, palaces among shepherd and traders, like me, bringing to town what children herd.