Reflections of a Dubai Lama

This is not home. It is the exile of the soul. I gather my robes around me and walk, in search of yesterday. The sidewalks are blisters blinding the eye. Constant reminders of sullen words, and kisses left untold. Pennants scorching the melting shade.
Five days a week I don’t see the sunset. Five days without God, trying to stop the teeth from chattering, the tongue from cursing.
Dubai, a frozen tundra.
I crane my neck to count.
Beyond the cumulus plains of the 160th floor, a spike, piercing the seat of God’s throne.

The elevators are fast. The slit in the attendant’s skirt a fake smile, cushioned heels, tired.
Gold coins and plush stuffed toy camels. Stomachs bloating with camel meat and grape juice.
Red.
Into the crystal glass it falls, a drop at a time.
A deluge.
God is bleeding.

Namaste.