I wanted to write a love poem but instead
I watched the news: there is talk of Syria falling
there is talk of Syria rising, there is only talk

and talk, of a lion griping, fighting, over lots
and lots of talk, though you do remember clearly
that I always wanted you, though we had

no plans for nothing, there were tides and lands
in tides, and incessant talk of nothing, and a
seed to plant in hand, though we’ve seen it

all in burning, have we not the winds to blame,
yet there is always talk of Syria, there is always
talk of home, and there is always something

eating, there is always something wrong: are
we not too much alike, some sensitive meek
and strong, have we not stuck together, have

we not against the winds: yes there is something
nearing eating, and so what, we’ve gotten it
all wrong, but I do remember you, and I do

remember me, and I do remember having, our
daughter called the sky, we will walk our steps
pretending that there are always streets to walk

This poem appeared in We Call to the Eye & the Night: Love Poems by Writers of Arab Heritage, edited by Hala Alyan and Zeina Hashem Beck and published by Persea Books.