Riyadh, 2000

House that dreams it is a house and wakes up

a villa, staring through mirrored glasses across

the Persian Gulf. House with sand roses and cumin,

water filters, screaming red fire ants. Their castles

the first to go; like violence predicting its own

arrival. House full of fire ants. I can call it an embassy

and almost be telling the truth.  The geckos 

operatic in the ceiling, the way the sand cat

must have looked, her stomach spread across

the warm patio tiles, her eyes pressed firmly

shut.  The house all heat, that heard the word “war”

only when a child mispronounced it and stopped,

forefinger stalled in the copy of Arab News 

until her father read it back to her.  House that was

a sun-spoke in a compound in the desert. One day

a woman would draw the design from a satellite image,

weld it into a charm for a hot bronze necklace

and squinting, turn it over in her hand.