Broken oud

                              On the willows there
                              We hung up our lyres
                                            —Psalm 137

I bought it when I was seventeen along the streets of Amman,
instrument store smelling like pine, humidifiers belching steam.

It rode between my legs on Egypt Air, a child I cradled when changing planes.
In a dark room, once home, I tuned its wooden pegs, cursed as they untuned.