Road to Harissa
Maryam drove too fast
through the mountains. Look, she said,
it’s Jesus, as we passed the figure on the hill,
but it was actually the Virgin Mary,
arms raised in benediction. The week
after Easter was called Bright Week,
and Behbod was obsessed with a line
from Dante: we were sullen in the sweet
air. He repeated this while drinking
his green bottles of Almaza beer
as we watched the processionals,
nuns with half-gone candles, small girls
weaving between them. When Israeli
jets bombed a power plant, an oily sheen
appeared on the sea.
