Arab Spring, Arab Sink.
My friend called me from Sanaa, from Gaza, from Sinai, from Homs.
She said: the streets are full of our blood.
We don’t have water and we don’t have electricity.
She said: Baba curses the day my head fell out of my mother and into this world.
Habeebi, when we had to leave Mosul for the third time we decided to make our bodies our homes.
On the death boat at last.
I whisper into your spine the names of cities we cannot once again inhabit:
Jaffa, Aleppo, Fallujah, Benghazi.
Adrift, at sea.
Salt stings our lashes
The water works its way into your skin.
Slowly, then all at once.
The waves dance your body.
Bassem held on for as long as he could.