The Impossible Knife of Memory
“The radio cuts in and out; we can’t account for the interference. We swirl the tea in metal cups, waiting. Not sure what we’re waiting for.Then the screaming starts. Fire boils in the desert-colored sky, breathing poison down his lover’s throat and eating her children. A moving mountain, alive, hungry, thundering toward this village, our tents: simoom.We throw the tea in the fire. Shout in seven languages, guns, arms, fingers all pointing to the wind coming for us. We race. We hide. Pray. The c...rippled camel-girl limps. The hungry wind is coming and all she can do is limp. I turn around. Someone grabs my arm, pulls me inside, screams in my head, but I watch her. The red scarf is torn from her hair. She limps. The village disappears. The wind is a lion, jaws open wide. He swallows the crippled camel-girl and scours the color from her eyes. Sand fills my mouth, stuffs my head with the stench of the lion. Pours into my ears the screams of every corpse. The winds of the desert have names.MoreLess
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