Sometimes, at night, the wind blows
Keeping me from sleep.
It rails against the darkness
Tearing at the thatch above my head;
Gusting from green Ethiopian highlands
Or billowing
In mighty clouds of sand,
Sweeping down from the sleeping Sahara
Like a giant army
Bent on leaving everything buried
Under layers of history
Blown south ever so slowly
Until Egypt and Cush
Lie inches deep on my doorstep.
And I’m left to wonder
What you would make of this place
On the farthest edge of nowhere?
In the morning the brutal sun
Rises red and then orange
To rule the day
Together with the thorn tree,
Which offers little shade
For anyone.
The bony cattle stumble along,
And the haggard donkey
Looks so sad.
And still the Arab man will beat it
In frustrated attempts to find
A thorn tree of his own.
The children might find him there
Selling cheep cigarettes
With no filters.
Those children blow smoke
Through their white teeth
And watch friends
Kicking old, dilapidated footballs
In the sand-
The grass died with the rain.
So did the cool mornings.
There is no water here,
But still the children smile
As they come from miles
Carrying plastic cartons
Dripping with muddy water.
The skinny cattle got their first;
But they would anyway.
The order of life is different,
As it always is,
On the edge of nowhere.
The sun sets,
Now crimson or purple,
To dye the day
And leave the thorn tree
Masked against the masterpiece
Like a monster
With a million angry talons
All reaching
For that lonely, haggard donkey
Left to keep watch
Lest the stars steal the thorns,
The shade,
And the rusty pale of muddy water
That never made it home -
It was too heavy
For the skeleton child
Whose big, smiling face
Keeps me awake
Long after the sand has settled
In molded waves
That rise and fall
From my doorstep to the tree
Where the donkey flicks its ears
And stamps its feet,
Alone,
On the farthest edge of nowhere.
