Tonight
even the skies weep for the loss of you
the heavens open and let forth a miraculous rain
that trickles down the whitewashed garden walls
soaking the jasmine trees near the portico
wetting the moonflowers by the door
drenching the frangipani and the lilies in their respective beds
flooding the bougainvillea, leaving their soft, bright petals everywhere
endeavoring to elicit a similar response
from my eyes
on my cheeks
scorched dry by your final kisses

Your observation of me has evoked a keen self-awareness
the body in my hair
the colors that I wear
how many times I lick my lips
or how my Philly stroll may sway my hips
unintentionally

I miss our emotional intimacy
the ability to say anything to or ask everything of one another
time spent listening, sharing, understanding, being the ideal lover
however, the acute pain of anticipating your absence is gone
replaced by the chronic despair of actual separation

Although I turn my attention to my work
I am not satisfied
as we roll into a distant province like a summer tempest
I realize that today is the first day of Ramadhan
and I, unlike my Muslim brothers, am fasting from you
taken from me by the sighted new moon, your sovereign

As we proceed from place to place
extending the glad hand and wearing the ever-smiling gringo face
I know that you would have truly appreciated these ruddy, tawny foothills
these starkly contrasting mountains cascading ruggedly against the afternoon sky
covered by soft shadows created by vast, rolling clouds
not unlike the four horsemen
advancing fiercely towards the sea

We race against Apollo’s chariot, dodging water and oil truck caravans
flying through deserted, desiccated moonscapes on a mock Bataan death march
to reach the emerald capital before sunset
where every place is tainted by memories of you
and strains of “Me Vuelve Loco” on the FM dial make everyone laugh, including me
who remembers saying those words to you, precisely, not too long ago

Meanwhile, I note the parched plains—once sea beds—naked and vulnerable like me
with the exception of a handful of traditionally-revered Sumer trees
and the occasional ancient, long-abandoned and decrepit hilltop tower

It is then that I discover that I cannot cry
the grief of your departure
still fresh
is a boulder lodged firmly between my breasts
hidden, buried, disguised

Now that you are gone
my telephone has returned to radio silence
I no longer hope that it will ring
or expect to hear your mellifluous “hello” if it does
I do not yearn, burn, toss and turn, or agonize for you—at least not publicly
strong, stoic, proud
at the many mentions of your name
I just plain miss you

02/25/2006

Author's Note: From the collection "Moon over Muscat"

Posted on 02/25/2006
Copyright © 2010 Rafika Anderson