come like a whisper, like a bump on the road, like a flood, a dam breaking

A bird sings from the tree. The birds sing 

sending waves of desire—and I stand on my roof 

waiting for a randomness to storm my days. I stand
on my roof 

filled with the longing that sings its way
out of the bird. 

And I am afraid that my call will break me, 

that the cry blocked by my tongue will pronounce me mad. 

O bird mad with longing, O balancing bar, 

tightrope, monkey grunting from a roof. Fortunate bird. 

I stand on my roof and wave centuries of desire. 

I am the Bedouin pondering the abandoned campsite, 

licking the ashes of the night fire; the American walking, 

walking miles of dresses, blouses, and skirts 

filling them
with infinite lovers; 

the mystic feeling the pull swirling
in his chest, 

a desert of purpose expanding and burning
and yellowing 

every shade of green. And I stand on my roof. 

And I say come like a stranger, like a feather 

falling on an old woman’s shoulder, like a hawk 

that comes to feed from her hands, come like a mystery, 

like sunlight rain, a blessing, a bus falling off a bridge, 

come like a deserting soldier, a murderer chased by law, 

like a girl prostitute escaping her pimp, come like a lost horse, 

like a dog dying of thirst, come love, come ragged
and melancholy 

like the last day on earth, come like a sigh
from a sick man, 

come like a whisper, like a bump on the road,
like a flood, 

a dam breaking, turbines falling from the sky, 

come love like the stench of a swamp, a barrage of light 

filling a blind girl’s eye, come like a memory 

convulsing
the body into sobs, like a carcass floating on a stream, 

come like a vision, come love like a crushing need, 

come like an afterthought. Heart song. Heart song. 

The pole smashes and the live wires yellow streaks 

on the lush grass. Come look and let me wonder. 

Someone.
So many. The sounds of footsteps, horses and cars. 

Come look and let me wonder. I stand on my roof 

echoing the bird’s song and the world says: Do not sleep. 

Do not sleep now
that you have housed your longing 

within the pain of words. 

 

[Khaled Mattawa {1964- } 'Heartsong', from The Best American Poetry 1997]