under the harsh, unforgiving glare of the sun, during
the worst of desert storms.
i dreamt of rising like a cobra from the ubiquitous sand,
with the trickle of golden grains sliding down my body.
once i was a king
but that was before caesar.
theirs are a tongue i would give anything to speak.
rich and thick and creamy like the scented cones propped
upon ancient egyptians’ heads they rolled out of their mouths
like a lullaby.
even the words smell like
za’atar and cumin and cardamom.
the evening air tastes like baharat and the waning sun.
they say that only the strongest survive
but what is never born
may never die.