by Sima Qunsol
We are crossing where the ocean once was. The driver says look,
each mountain has a name. There must be hundreds of them.
He is taking us back to the seaside, to the city lights, and our
bodies are weary, chapped skin yearning for humid air.
We travel this road every night, carrying some of the desert with us
in our shoes and pockets and eyelashes. I tell myself it is not sea or
sand that is home but the journey we make between the two, when the
sun acquiesces as we drive away, slowly painting the dunes golden.
We’ll be back tomorrow, we whisper behind closed windows.
I’ll be back to lie down among those dunes again and glance
up and catch the moon, a waning gibbous, resting in the clear sky
even though it is only a little past midday and the heat is unforgiving.
Sima Qunsol is a writer, visual artist and seamstress based in Amman. She studied English literature, media communication studies and creative writing at the American University of Beirut. She spends half her time on film sets and the other half working on personal essays, illustrations, and sewing projects. She has a deep love for art history and an affinity for jazz music. Most of her projects deal with time, memory and the city.