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Turbulence: Night Flight to Cairo.

 Dice in a meaty palm, our edges
chafe. Side by side we rock,
squeezed in the narrow row.
Clamped in our seats, we let
elbows and knees creep up to
checkpoints. Our bulks slide
against communal barricades.
Aleph / alif, our arms and legs
shape silent alphabets. We are
Shiite and Jew, sharing one ritual
salaam and dovening. Dreams seep
out between us, surely as bacteria
stream from a sealed cartouche.
We breathe each other in.
Eleven hours before we shudder
to a stop. Unforgiving light will bear
down on us, our separate lots shake
from the jar. We'll claim our effects.
But for now, habiba, chavera sheli,
your burka laps across my jeans.
Almost I have you in my arms.

Notes:

habiba (Arabic)--beloved one (feminine) chavera sheli (Hebrew)--dear friend (feminine)

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Author:Zimet, Kristin Camitta
Publication:Atlanta Review
Article Type:Poem
Date:Sep 22, 2019
Words:170
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