Hajar in my Hijaz

In the city my family is from
there is a well of sweet water
that I have tasted.
Its wetness laced with mastic.
Like camphor on the tongue,
a swallow of fragrant smoke.
& near the well is a track lighted
at night by fluorescence.
There male pilgrims in white run
holding their simple cloth
garments with sweaty hands.
Seven times between the barren
Makkah mountains Hajar ran
with Isma’il. In the night
because by day the heat
of the valley is beyond bearing,
& she was in black like all women.
My family slept on their hilltop
over the plains swaddled
in the cool night air.
In the shade of their majlis
they talked of a woman of Canaan
newly come to town, worn
through with travel.
What comfort there was
from the old Gods, they had it.