by Josh Aaron Siegel

After Land by Agha Shahid Ali

There is no moon here since my father left across the sea. No light to guide me out of the valley when the others have shuffled away.

At night I push my ear to the wall so I can listen to the families that surround

me knees between my arms waiting for the sound.

Will the crowd hold their cries When

milk returns to this blessed land?

As my father says the lights of the old town streaking the whites of his eyes –When milk turns to yogurt there is no going back not even in dreams–

I go out past fields by stone roads where shepherds point to the sky as a greeting. I go to the hill that looks out over the water and trace my finger along the horizon line.

Each night I swear the line inches upwards. Maybe the water will take over the sky and surround the missing moon, surround the lights in my father’s eyes, surround me until we can’t see to see

At the moment the heart is drowned, Where does

the home live on, oh Promised Land?

–Not even in memory– says my father –can the home live on– because no matter where the bombs drop, no matter where fate points her wrinkled finger

We are all heading arms outstretched to a land where memory has no place but there’s no stopping the images from holding me in place,

the white capped men who sold candied dates, the cellphone sales woman who tried to move away but couldn’t

the girl who wore jeans

These wanderers pull my hands down connect my fingers to the pavement until I can no longer raise my arms