SEA HORSES (SYRIA)
HEATHER BOURBEAU
Fall came slowly,
Heat hanging as the sun went down.
We dove into the ocean,
Dancing between each other,
Between the weeds and fish.
We were unaware
Of the pain
Of the bombs
Of the rubble that
Was our house, our families,
Our sense of right and wrong
And real.
Among the waves,
In the cooling waters,
We moved between what is Sunni
And what is Shi’a,
Between alive and the
Not-quite-dead that had descended.
Here in our Atlantis,
We learned the male sea horse
Carries the eggs,
Protects the next generation—
Much like you carried our pain
Deep inside
Until we could emerge
And cry, lungs drying,
As the sea horses called in the distance,
“Before us, is the killing,
But behind us, is the sea.”
THE DRY CLEANER
HEATHER BOURBEAU
Each day, he sweats through other people’s stains. Mistakes rubbed out. Pieces baptized without water, starched and coated with shiny plastic, like new. Their lives writ small, each choice explicit. Affairs revealed, professions implied, odors embedded. Grass, lipstick, vomit, pen. He longs for the man with no children who chooses to dress exquisitely, whose job is secondary and who keeps him guessing.
Tag, spot, clean, sew, iron, fold, wrap. Lines smoothed, pleats crisped, respect restored. He remembers a time before he did time and wonders when he stopped praying, stopped believing there was someone who could wipe his slate clean.
