Today, you leave for the desert.
Long fingers of swaying wisteria
rain their pale confetti blossoms
around us, and I can't help but
think you'll find no wisteria in
Lashkar Gah. I want to tell you
“Never get too close to the cars
in Lashkar Gah,” but your fingers
are on my lips and your eyes are
archiving every part of me, and
your eyes are like a dust storm:
huge, breathless, all-consuming,
and what could I say to stop the
advance of their terrible beauty?

A tiny lavender petal caresses
your cheek where tomorrow's
grit will scour it.