Fall. Winter. Spring.
The birth of their first child.
Quiet days that quickly slip behind them.
His hand reaching for hers
after supper is cleared.
Her arm reaching for him
in her sleep.
A strategic marriage,
a political marriage.
Unasked-for, unnegotiated,
this friendship.
Shazia softly singing to their soft-cheeked son
in her own language, the words unknown to Xau,
but the string of sounds stored in his memory,
so that one night,
far from her,
on the eve of his second war,
he will remember each rolling syllable,
the way she smelled,
his son's hand fisted
round his finger.
(First published in Songs of Eretz Poetry Review)
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