Damascus in Ramadan (Poem)

There is no straight man in the world

said starry eyed Rima, as we returned

from the Damascus book fair where,

for the hundredth time, I fell in love.

No straight man in the world —

only cheaters, pimps, addicts, & bores.

Rima passed her days on the rooftop

watching the world unfurl,

watching her rivals fall in love.

She once had a man more beautiful

than herself, she said.

She didn’t want children.

She wanted just a touch, a hand,

to grant release from

her celestial observatory,

to aim arrows at her stars.

Damascus in the month of Ramadan

is an affliction that multiplies hourly

the hunger inside, the longing to be touched,

until prayer brings roof banging at dawn.

I thought I had bested Rima’s forecasts.

Until the plane landed. I tried

to remember the name of the book fair man

whose smile had stolen my heart.

His syllables merged with others’ words.

His nomadic soul hitched onto Rima’s stars.