Aria Aber, “Notes from the Ruined City” [she just tweeted “i can’t believe i wrote this two years ago”]

[text ID: On the mud-spattered steps / of Kabul’s blue mosque, a pomegranate half / vibrates with worms. / God has no clock / but the muezzin’s song, / which veils the city’s vascular glass / and dilapidated buildings / each fifth hour—it must. / Evenings, I rinse from my face / the city’s grime, its fried oils. / My eyelashes sweep, then blacken, like battery grease, / the handkerchief of time / until I see new again. In the night markets, fruit / clings to soft rain, fish with eyes like milk warm / the ice. Each apple wears, for a moment, your face— / I lost you. I lose you again. By my want, / its incessantness, I’m mystified, / as by the city’s graffiti, this native grief / I cannot read. Before you left me, we held each other / in the American hotel overlooking / this landlocked relief, our bodies exceeding summer, / a halo of insects lighting up the balcony—amid the ruins / of the neighboring roof, one could see / two children sleep, like children, / on the white wood of a dismantled door.]