CHANSON MYSTIQUE

Nothing lost stays gone forever. Like a storm cloud
wavering over Mt. Ebal, pinned to the sky as a dove

in the watchtower’s eye. I ate an eskadania & I
became soft-plumed & dented as a hill’s hide,

daughter to nothing but milk & music. This is no God,
not in my sand-cradle, not in my land if the land

stays stolen. Say missing. Say mystic. Say miracle-
maker or mother, cloud dust or even better—oil

& za’atar. How names can change a thing. I ate a loquat
while angels dipped their heads & listened, hummed

along. No lyrics to this too-big something, raisined
with the breaking of rain. Not broken, no—& I take

back what I said before. Here sits holiness of sorts,
here sits coral, blood & cherry, here scatters the stars

like my uncle scatters saplings. I saw a storm arrive
in Kansas and nature stalled to listen, fireflies dizzy

with song. I saw dead flies flecked in cherry juice
in Jerusalem & it folded me reverent & shattered.

My uncle handing me a map with cities & names lost
to red signs & treaties. What you are changes a thing.

Alright, so the map is illegal. Alright, so it’s hidden
& gone. I carry that vision with me like a passport, 

like a stolen diamond, like my little sister’s glove.