To Obe
For us to turn into weed;
Ten years is what it takes
For the white roses to shed,
For an oud to rot and a flute rust.
Ten years is what it takes
For the humid nights to yawn
And collapse on the sidewalk in hazy slumber;
Ten years for all the winding stairs
to lose their stones,
For the spruce to grow dusty,
And for bright eyes to tire of the light.
Ten years, and we're no longer there.
The curve of the road,
The cliff and how it hangs,
The cypress that lined the broken pavement
And swayed like they could read our minds;
Your room still fragrant
with fragments of my breath
plastering its innards
like dank wallpaper
held by song;
And the worn leather couch
Where I first believed in God
Still dimples under my ghost.
Ten years is what it takes
For the waves to take root on my shore,
Ten years for the promise to let go;
Ten years to return
To the first syllable,
The fuzzy hair, the freckled cheek,
The shoes flayed at the outset.
And somewhere in the hallways
Ten years before
A boy peers from around the corner
And goes...
© Copyright 2005 Obeida Sidani
