Nora Byrne
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Words

Arts, Arabic, Adventures

انا بردانه

I’ve been baptized. 

I walked, not alone, through the downpour, came to the other side shivering and soggy. Track water over the floor, feel guilty but for the freedom. Run to the wet warmth of the chlorinated showerhead.

From what I hear I was baptized in acid, bathed in pollution and nearly struck by lightning. It doesn’t signify.

This winter is unlike any other I might be coated in chemicals my lungs full of dust, but the short days stay warm and sun seeps through murky skies. Clouds here diffuse a steady glow, sunsets suspended in the sky battle the atmosphere with steady flame. 

Desert cold is nothing more than knee-jerk skepticism of glorious warm breezes and the tepid torrents of Arabian winter. Bask in November fear December but not the long nights, suffocating mornings not the inertia of waking to a wall of cold, pulling pillowcases from frosted glass.

See space between storm heads and sea as you leave, watch languid seasons fade into worlds of shoulders clothes in shrugs and hat covered hair. Get back to getting distracted, get fuzzy nosed and shy under hunter orange knits.  

See shining air in clear skies, breathe water, smell clusters of stars. There are long vowels and warmth wrapped in the chill of winter nights, ginger and lemons skinned and steeped. Step from beery familiarity into real cold, shiver and shake chase cats to stay brave; heat the air with profanity.

Stay just long enough for feathery dustings, for loose shovelfuls and your breath in the breeze. Stay to fall asleep at night and need coffee in the morning, leave before you remember why you left. Leave panicked, leave unsatisfied, leave with the scars on your back still fading.  

The moon shines over metropolitan haze and you still see the stars when you’re this high. Watch the moon wax and wane with the tilt of the plane; you can watch the sun rise from the sky.