On the road to Damascus

not another camel in sight, your nostrils twitch
in the slackened air as you step off-stage and carry
me out of the Süreyya Opera House* nestled between

your breasted-humps. Your steady gait, the lurch
and grate of the leather saddle, your rank coat wafts
assurance as we set sail over the dunes. (Even

my horoscope urged me to camel-up before
embarking). And as we ride, the frozen archipelago
of flesh – not me, but all of me that is left – softens.

I thread the needle of my eye, weave
and scissor a tapestry into your bristled-coat,
a map we trace for water, for light; perhaps

a treasured carpet our offspring will fly
through desert nights.