by John Canaday

    In early spring， here in the Rub 'al Khali，

    Gabriel swings his goad¹ over the humped backs

    of swollen² clouds. They roar like angry camels

    and thunder toward the fields of the fellahin.

    At night， I dream of grass so green it speaks.

    But at noon， even the dry chatter³ of djinn

    leaves the wadis. The sun lowers its bucket，

    though my body is the only well for miles.

    A dropped stone calls back from the bottom

    with the voice of a starving locust⁴： Make it

    your wish， habibi， and the rain will walk

    over the dry hills of your eyes on tiptoes

    as the poppies weave themselves into a robe

    to mantle⁵ the broad shoulders of the desert.

    The words uncoil like smoke from a smothered⁶ fire，

    rising leisurely⁷ out of me as though to mark

    where a castaway has come aground at last.

    And yet I have not spoken. My voice limps

    on old bones， its legs too dry and brittle⁸

    to leap like a barking locust into song.

    But I imagine what was said or might

    be said by some collective throat about

    the plowman loving best the raw， turned earth，

    or the caliph longing⁹ for his desert lodge¹⁰，

    where ghoulem whisper like the wind at prayer，

    and poppies bow their gaudy¹¹ heads toward Mecca，

    each one mumbling¹² a different word for dust.