The kid asks, of course . . . He asks
when we will head back home.
And so one time I told him. I said: our house
was taken up to the sky. I don’t know
what I was thinking. I said:
our house was so good to us, Alim,
that it could not stand on earth anymore
like all other houses.
And it had so much love,
so many layers of love
we applied to the floor, the doors,
the window panes,
and as soon as the old love peeled off,
we would put on a new layer, even more diligently
and generously; ever brighter white and red
was the love we put on. Also, ivory-colored
love, although grandpa said that’s not real love,
just childish games. Because for love
a simple color should be enough.
All of this I say to myself, and to the kid
I say: yes, you could see nothing but
the sky from the windows now.
And angels too.
But there is no one home.
Because angels are not for the living to see.