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Sunday, Nov. 15, 2009

Close to Ramadan

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I begin to wake mid-sleep under the weight of a thousand, keened Arabic blades wielded by my dead father -- his Born to Lose tattoos -- and her small, darkened hues sweating beside me. A screensaver flares about the thin walls, sheets and unheard quiet. It’s always August. The time of year that stretches both day and night alike. It’s always the sun, always Mecca. Always the orb, the lifebringer and the scenes of her falling approbation, blossoming on the way down. I listen to her windflowers, now sounding as American as suicide. I watch her now, olive-skinned, asleep in Jordan. Two glasses of water won’t wash down the tastes of hope and disaster. I close my eyes again wanting neither and the in-betweens.

Jacob Kratt has lived in Milwaukee since 2004.  He works in the IT field.