Camp Delta, Guantanamo Bay

Close eyes forget the 8x8 salty stench. I imagine the Gulf. Beads that collect along the ridges of my mouth are dew drops the Zagros Mountains struggle to gather. I see those mountains behind eyelids that remind me I'm in Iran on my prayer mat with bowed head I face the Jameh Mosque. I look past the armed guard when he delivers my meal, and see my son return from school, running to hug me. I look past the armed guard and I'm home.