by Sara Elkamel

for Huda Lutfi

Near the end
there are hands in the wind
and wind in the middle.

Because she demands it,
I pull the end of nothing
through the eye of nothing,

and hand nothing
back to her. Hunger
distends my tongue.

When we were young
we could never escape
the bare skin of our mothers.

Then strata of fabric
clocked them in the cold.
When I finally will say

I don’t think it’s true
my loneliness is something
I designed for myself

I’d like to imagine the wind
will run to turn back
the skin. In no time

time will eat what’s left
of the wind. I should keep
hidden from the light

the future of my hands.

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