The Night, a Naked Knife

I am waiting for her at the edge of my body—
I look here, I look there—
endless road signs;
one by one, all traffic lights disappear.
The night is a naked knife,
the moon a convicted criminal.
Beyond the harbor, war photographs flutter
from burnt apartment walls—

children without shadows,
helmets filled with sand,
tanks dragging silence through the rubble.
I am rescuing wounded fish from the sea.
Black smoke rises like a second history
of my nameless nation.
Somewhere, flamingos crawl slowly
through fields of sleeping wheat.

Spring is here—
sirens continue stitching the dark together.
They return my body without its parts;
she believes it is me.
We offer prayers at gunpoint.
I sleep again in my zebra pants,
beneath ceilings cracked by invisible bombings.