Oh, uncles,
what zealous men you are!
Sister ran away with her lover so
your hounds scoured the hills
and how young and fresh her bones were.
Eve kissed the desert scrub
before the land washed its hands of you
and I, from a small window, smiled
at the children’s feet ricocheting over the ground
and the women, before their breasts ran dry,
trickled drops of their pitiful milk
into the throats of blond soldiers
and the virgin kissed her lover
before father claps his hands
and we pack our clothes
for somewhere my brothers
can fall in love again,
somewhere our river is a sea—
if father forgives his brothers
and the unforgivable land
let us love,
my sisters,
the highlands
…its lover.
Winter 2008