False Cedar

a poem

The walls echo old laughter

and an out of tune Oud

played by fingers spotted and pruned.

Pictures of strangers passed

Stare back from behind glass—

We leave room for them.

A seat always left empty as if expecting the

ghosts

to partake in post lunch coffee

And conversation.

A tongue that is familiar to my ears

paints purple streaks in a bleeding sunset,

but becomes a mottled mess

Upon my tongue

tied

twisted

and tangled,

a Juniper

In a forest of Cedars.

Lacking the smokey scent

of the Phoenix’s ashes

or the resemblance of a thorn crowned king

carved into its knots.