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,

only doves

and you prove it with a single feather

that smells of your new skin.

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