Of Course She Looked Back

Of Course She Looked Back



You would have, too.
From that distance the city
fit in the palm of her hand
like she owned it.

She could’ve blown the whole thing—
markets, dancehalls, hookah bars—
sent the city and its hundred harems
tumbling across the desert
like a kiss. She had to look back.

When she did, what did she see?
Pigeons trembling like debris
above ruined rooftops. Towers
swaying. Women in dresses
strewn along burnt-out streets
like broken red bells.

The noise was something else.
Dogs wept. Roosters howled.
Children sang songs of despair.
Guitars fed the dancing blaze.

Her husband uttered Keep going.
Whispered Stay the course, or
Forget about it. She couldn’t.

Now a blooming garden of fire
the city burst to flame after flame
like fruit in an orange orchard.

Someone thirsty asked for water.
Someone scared asked to pray.
Her daughters, or the angel
maybe. She wondered
had she unplugged the coffee pot?
The iron? Was the oven off?

She meant to look away.
Long dark legs of smoke opened
to the sky. She meant to look
away, but the sting in her eyes
held her there.


Natalie Diaz