Under the orange trees,
he turned to me and said,
scratch that, all things are beautiful
could he feel
the kitchen table under my elbows,
the taut muscles of my father’s face
tendons like fists, then ropes
the wince, the rocking motion,
what an ugly thing
war is
fingering the dullness.
leaves of an olive tree,
a skirt that swallows dust,
a lime in a girl’s mouth,
skin stinging under fingernails
in the dives of birds over the orchard,
do I not love the world enough?
she is taking a little break from herself now.
her shadow has left the house now,
she cannot
hurt bodies
without it.
standing on a rooftop in Rabat,
she knows her shadow is the fog
fossilizing the city by evening
she has gone to retrieve it in the waves
that touch her like cotton
and recognize her skin, even the hem of her skirt
and she is trying to remember if God forgave the princesita
who stole the star in Darío’s poem. She thinks God did.
she wants to know if it is okay to take one from the tile
by the unfinished mosque