Longing

Photo by Sergey Pesterev, Unsplash.

Nomads said:
‘Know the sky, the shift of light, the hues of orange.’

Can I die of longing to return?

I imagine knots of wind and dust and the scent of
something called home.

This is a (very short) erasure poem taken from Susan Rich’s Poem here below in full, entitled ‘.Lost By Way of Tchin-Tabarden’. This is in response to Laura’s challenge at the d’Verse Poets Pub. For more details look at the link at: https://dversepoets.com/2021/10/19/poetics-lost-poems-and-found-poetry/#comment-312959.

Nomads are said to know their way by an exact spot in the sky,
the touch of sand to their fingers, granules on the tongue.
But sometimes a system breaks down. I witness a shift of light,
study the irregular shadings of dunes. Why am I traveling
this road to Zinder, where really there is no road? No service station
at this check point, just one commercant hawking Fanta
in gangrene hues. C’est formidable! he gestures — staring ahead
over a pyramid of foreign orange juice.
In the desert life is distilled to an angle of wind, camel droppings,
salted food. How long has this man been here, how long
can I stay contemplating a route home?
It’s so easy to get lost and disappear, die of thirst and longing
as the Sultan’s three wives did last year. Found in their Mercedes,
the chauffeur at the wheel, how did they fail to return home
to Ágadez, retrace a landscape they’d always believed?
No cross-streets, no broken yellow lines; I feel relief at the abandonment
of my own geography. I know there’s no surveyor but want to imagine
the aerial map that will send me above flame trees, snaking
through knots of basalt. I’ll mark the exact site for a lean-to
where the wind and dust travel easily along my skin,
and I’m no longer satiated by the scent of gasoline. I’ll arrive there
out of balance, untaught; ready for something called home.

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