Riis Beach

Dina Abdulhadi

Aureliano Segundo ask[ed the Arabs] with his usual informality what mysterious resources they had relied upon so as not to have gone awash in the storm . . . one after the other, from door to door, they returned a crafty smile and a dreamy look, and without any previous consultation they all gave the answer:

“Swimming.”

 

—Gabriel Garcia Marques, One Hundred Years of Solitude 

 

Leave home. Take what 

I want to survive.

The rest: waterlogged,

pawned, landfilled

by landlords, emptied

photographs of Petra,

Pyramids, child eyes

kneaded into layers of

pecan shells, diapers,

coke cans, chicken bones.

Chew pith, sweet with bitter.

Know father could carry 

less over the Jordan River

and all waters after that.

How he loved even

the worst fried chicken.

 

I only wear 20%

of the identities I own

80% of the time. Remember

sunk costs of saving 

those who don’t want my help.

Good daughter, ungrateful

American, robot. Learn

organic chemistry and become

the Teflon they say I am.

Give one past me away,

everyday. Declutter sorrys,

hoarded words, lab coat,

hair straightener, southern drawl.

Fill a bag with memory

clutter. Use a different bag

to control my breathing.

 

Take pictures from

river to unattainable sea,

of any journey to the ocean

for when I forget what 

I promised myself, and him. 

Replace memories evicted,

displace inheritance of displacement,

so I could savor the shore

while I was still young.

 

One more reminder: a wound,

a hope, a desire expands

to fill the space I allow it.

 

The River Jordan dries up

by baptism held at a rifle’s end

while the rising Western seafront

advances on its deathwish.

 

My promise: I breathe life and

don’t release a thing to the sea.

It is filled with enough trash

human intention already,

hoards everything we give it.

 

Take with you only

what you want to survive.

Trust the small creatures

who tread these waves of passage,

coiling your hair to currents,

kissing your salty skin.