In your letters from Pamplona
you said that bulls were the most beautiful creatures
because their eyes stay lit as they die slowly.
You said that people cheer
as their black coats stain wet and
in minutes, the shadow that had raced
only followed by spurred dust
falls still in what you wish was silence.
Later, walking the bricked roads
the sky burst with fireworks and
in the middle of the street you laughed.
In your letters from Alicante
you explained that they called you Lukah
because the Spanish tongue can’t roll
Egyptian names like your mother
when she misses you.
And you wrote to me that the beaches have
no seagulls, no sandpipers,
and you prove it with a single feather
that smells of your new skin.