What the Shamal Brings

 

Blowing in around the frame

Of ill fitting doors

And through fly screens,

Clogging the mesh.

 

Grains like icing sugar

Coat cool marble floors,

Layering pattern on pattern.

 

In the corners of rooms

Where broom bristles can’t reach,

Drifts gather.

 

Sinking into the warp and weft

Of rugs and kilims,

And rising in nebulous clouds

With every step.

 

Table tops are covered;

Ghosts of objects patinate surfaces for days

Until fresh gusts scour them clean.

 

My throat scratches and burns,

Like too much spice.

My lungs fill –

Each breath becomes

A slow suffocation.

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