All the Stories You Have Yet to Tell Me

As indifferent as a dictionary

With your calm blue eyes

You lie there

Wearing a black Moroccan tunic

Embroidered with a story.

That loose, unencumbered dress

Is well-suited for your nomadic life.

I have always wanted to hear it,

The narrative stitched in the fabric

Like three philodendrons
My mother let die

That cold Michigan winter

I turned fifteen.

You get up,

Light a cigarette,

Pour a cup of coffee,

Poke poke poke your iPhone.

I am thinking of Kuwait.

The Bedouin said these rocks

The sound of water and sand

Whispers in the deepest ear.