Jordan calls to my bones
In throbs of Bedouin drumbeats,
Saying: here your heart is home.

Like the muds of the dead sea,
I have fermented in my history,
And it sits heavily upon me

sealing and
healing my cuts and scrapes with
stinging mystery.

In the lights of Amman
And the fields of Shatana
There is a call mustering me,
A call to come home,
finally