The Lesson
(Al Udeid Air Force Base, Near Doha, Qatar; 115 Degrees Fahrenheit; 80% Humidity)
By Joanna Grant
July 15, 2024
July 15, 2024
Last night, the prefab buildings ran with sweat. Somehow the humid air hangs here in the desert wind, soaking, soaking, water everywhere but hardly ever any rain. The condensation dripping down the metal walls, leaving clear runnels in the sticky grit of windblown silt. Some nights on the long walks home from work, the mist, the sweat, my steaming breath—all running, all running like tears. Down my cheeks, down past my collar. Sometimes joined by some of my own making. So many tears. So many. Between the wall and me, enough to weep for all the woes of the world, so it seems.
In the gloaming, few things are what they appear to be. So easy to mistake your depth, to feel an ankle twist out from under you, casualty of a slippery rock, an incautious step. As the moon stares down, the very earth ripples, it quickens—and there, where you would have sworn it was nothing, just dirt—a mourning dove, its feathers all one slick brindle, bursting up into the air, bringing its last little find back up to the nest.
Time in the desert changes things. It once was thought, I tell my pupils, that if we strayed too far out into the dust, if we stayed out too long, we might change ourselves. Sprout pinfeathers. Pinions. Even whole wings. That our noses would lengthen, stiffen, turning into beaks.
I came here to get away from you, or to get away from the you that wanted to get away from me. It’s been thirteen years, now. I’ve ridden the thermals, I’ve sheltered from storms. Dodged the browning drops of muddy desert rain in the monsoon season. Learned the back ways, the byways. And after that class when I spoke of the dust, I took a new turning, and there it was again--the mourning dove, sitting, resting, atop a pitted old stone, a local landmark. It had no fear of me—its dark eyes resting on me as if to say, I’ve been waiting. Waiting for you.
And later that night, a dream. The first time in years. Your light brownish-gold hair, your pianist’s hands, long-fingered, your Roman nose that you used to call your beak.
You didn’t speak, but I understood anyway. I knew what you would say. See? I told you. And here I am. It took me a while, but here I am, just like I promised, all those times before.
And here you are, I said. You came. It’s finally you. It’s only ever, ever been you.
And then my own wings grew. And we flew.
In the gloaming, few things are what they appear to be. So easy to mistake your depth, to feel an ankle twist out from under you, casualty of a slippery rock, an incautious step. As the moon stares down, the very earth ripples, it quickens—and there, where you would have sworn it was nothing, just dirt—a mourning dove, its feathers all one slick brindle, bursting up into the air, bringing its last little find back up to the nest.
Time in the desert changes things. It once was thought, I tell my pupils, that if we strayed too far out into the dust, if we stayed out too long, we might change ourselves. Sprout pinfeathers. Pinions. Even whole wings. That our noses would lengthen, stiffen, turning into beaks.
I came here to get away from you, or to get away from the you that wanted to get away from me. It’s been thirteen years, now. I’ve ridden the thermals, I’ve sheltered from storms. Dodged the browning drops of muddy desert rain in the monsoon season. Learned the back ways, the byways. And after that class when I spoke of the dust, I took a new turning, and there it was again--the mourning dove, sitting, resting, atop a pitted old stone, a local landmark. It had no fear of me—its dark eyes resting on me as if to say, I’ve been waiting. Waiting for you.
And later that night, a dream. The first time in years. Your light brownish-gold hair, your pianist’s hands, long-fingered, your Roman nose that you used to call your beak.
You didn’t speak, but I understood anyway. I knew what you would say. See? I told you. And here I am. It took me a while, but here I am, just like I promised, all those times before.
And here you are, I said. You came. It’s finally you. It’s only ever, ever been you.
And then my own wings grew. And we flew.
Joanna Grant has lived and worked in Europe, the Middle East, and Asia for many years. She teaches college classes to deployed American soldiers deployed overseas. To date, she has taught in Japan, Kuwait, Afghanistan, Djibouti, South Korea, Jordan, Bahrain, and Qatar. Living “away” for so long has complicated her ideas of what home means, in optimistic as well as bittersweet ways. Her most recent poetry collection is Adrift from Alien Buddha Press.
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Author’s Note:
This poem took a long time to come together, and, when it did, it hit me hard. Sometimes, you sit down and cudgel your brains, wondering where the next inspiration might come from. In the case of this poem, I almost literally stumbled across it one night here on our air base in Qatar, which we Americans share with the Qatari Air Force and squadrons of birds of all sizes. This bird sitting on its rock perch at my eye level reminded me so much of a man I used to love, one who died a few years ago. In my Mythology class (I teach university extension courses to deployed soldiers) we'd just been talking about animals in myth and the role of shapeshifting in so many mythological traditions. The bird's profile and expression reminded me so much of my dead love. That reminder gave me the poem's central conceit, and the last line, which never changed: “And we flew.”