Something about being small children
in a Himalayan light garden
goes beyond grief.
Flying your kite from rooftop,
you caught my heart because you were born there,
among the barren, brown-shouldered mountains,
a tiny baby, a star in the deep, empty sky.
Light, falling unbroken by tree or tower,
fell upon our necks in playful swipes,
its dance in the endless sky
a festival in Eden
for snow-bright archangels,
not for missionary, Western children
rearranging our Western doll houses
on the empty plateaus below.
When we left Afghanistan,
metal wings hesitantly lifting in the air—
I dreamt over and over of fire,
our cradle-loves burning
back into dust,
the curling, tortured remains
of homes and Himalayas crying out:
You can never come back.
Yet, beyond all fire,
like the still waters of Band-e Amir,
blue light-catchers,
you look across at me in the flames,
the way Afghan eyes still stare
within my burning wilderness,
a look of ancient purity, sorrow mixed with mercy.
