a poem for ahmad

in that ancient silence of the desert fathers,
you and i argued in aramaic once, a long and long time ago
i remember your accent
or is that just my shitty memory?
still, i miss your stories
we used to speak of epics and empires,
and you shared my love of life, slamming
orange juice while I liquored myself
at bars full of empty people, as I saw for the first time
that i was an empty people
and still our conversations became the stuff of forest fires
our mutual understanding grew into families we
celebrated all manner of holidays with,
over just a sip of tea, or a flip through the papers.
our world's are full trouble and chaos.
crying babies and grandmas and hollowed-out mosques.
i will always remember your tears when you lost your friend.
i would kill the man who killed him.
i know deep down that somehow my country took his life.
i burn with vitriolic revenge for your best brother who fell.
so do you.
you come from a torn place.
i become a bitter person. i hate all things and people and
you don't really understand.
you wear scars like french cufflinks- we keep speaking to the minutes.
we are the same age- how much we have in common!
i dreamed my whole childhood of meeting a friend like you!
i tell you about how new york is not america, and you tell me
how baalbek is "just stones..."
we clumsily try to connect with and present 'our people,' yet I know
that it's all a sham. we are our people. that's how it is.
i cry sometimes when i think of how separate we are.
you are always my brother.