Road to Harissa

Maryam drove too fast

through the mountains. Look, she said,

it’s  Jesus, as we passed the figure on the hill,

but it was actually the Virgin Mary,

arms raised in benediction. The week

after Easter was called Bright Week,

and Behbod was obsessed with a line

from Dante: we were sullen in the sweet

air. He repeated this while drinking

his green bottles of Almaza beer

as we watched the processionals,

nuns with half-gone candles, small girls

weaving between them. When Israeli

jets bombed a power plant, an oily sheen

appeared on the sea.