Lebanon I am

Lebanon, I’ve been meaning to write you for a long time.

Lebanon, I have maybe thought more of you in the last 10 years than I should have,

knowing you for so short a time.

And I know, Lebanon, that I still don’t really know.

Lebanon, I am your least expected, popping up where you least expected.

Lebanon, I am softly closing toes around your

tarsals, and you are walking padding dancing about

with my heels on your phalanges, feet on your feet on

the carpet on the floorboards on the supports on the wires

that bring you government electricity for hours

each day

            before

It’s okay, I know how to restart the generator.

Don’t cry.

Don’t let the anger seep out. (not into the streets. not again.)

We can sit in the dark and

            Kisskisskiss        until    the tv comes back on

Let’s tell stories (Levanon) of our opposite

childhoods  one of inner war                        one of

outer                        war

Both afraid of our mothers    both    afraid

                                                            (of each other)

Lebanon

Let me fight your battles, no, stand next to you in battle

I can turn my passion into rage

Levanon

if that’s what you need

if that’s what will feed            your smoke-kissed

children

And the politicians

that bring you government electricity for hours

each day

            before

It’s okay, I just need to go downstairs

and            we don’t really need to see the

news                        we don’t need to see

Somewhere there is a man

whose black robes count as influence

There is a man who says what he means

and follows though on

            what he says,

But Somewhere in the Chouf Mountains

   there is a beekeeper

who also says what he means and

means what he says

            And I do not understand

why we listen      to the man who

hides his whole body when he speaks

            more than the man

who covers his face with only a net

       when he goes to remove the

          honey.