notes to self
she sits in the empty row, alone
the ikaki bag woman has short obedient hair, a fixed gaze
and behind the all black polyester shoes,
her inward looking knees, i know
she’s still a girl.
at an arabic funeral
in place of tears,
the dry wind and desert sky.
green the insciptions on a slab,
the dirt was, like the Americans’ uniforms, colour of a sparse beach.
it’s my words choked at my gullet, i can’t swallow
and the wisps from my lanyx that you
make for my words.
i’m suffocating, dear
it’s the high wails from my horse throat that i gallop with my hoofs