Something about being small children
in a Himalayan light garden
goes beyond grief.
Flying our kites from rooftops,
you caught my heart because you were born there,
among the barren, brown-shouldered mountains,
a tiny baby like 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 archangels, not for missionary,
Western children
rearranging our Western doll houses
on the empty plateaus below,
the playing fields of spurned
demons.
When we left Afghanistan,
our metal wings hesitantly lifting in the air—
I dreamt over and over of fire,
our cradled loves burning back into dust,
the curling, tortured remains
of houses 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.
