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Marrakesh (Morocco), 1880 |
Nailed to the ground
I see only the foot of your horse
the sweat-darkened fetlock
still more graceful than the foot of my mule
A blow
Blood washes away the taste of my
servant's mint tea, I remember
her eyes brimming with tears of relief
when my wife left her wages
along with that bit of stew
we failed to finish
We eat little at our age, my wife and I
Another blow
A child shrieks, I remember
my servant's son, so small--though the eldest
the serious look on his face as he swept
sand from the doorstep with a rag
Another blow
My eyes swell into an absence of light
my ears ring into an absence of sound
like our silent praying in a bare synagogue
beneath an unpatched roof
like the missing tombstones
concealing our dead from your desecrations
Another blow
I must join the unmarked corpses
However little could be left of me
ransoming my corpse will impoverish my wife
If only I could tell her to leave me for the dogs
We are both sons of Abraham
though I reject your warrior-merchant prophet
I never learned to see your sister or her starving
children as my enemy
She refused my pity
Does she pity me now?
Or is there only shame to be caught working for a Jew?
Marrakesh, 1880
Declare war upon those to whom the Scriptures were revealed but
believe neither in God nor the Last Day, and who do not forbid that
which God and His Apostle have forbidden, and who refuse the true
religion, until they pay the poll-tax without reservation and are
totally subjugated. - The Koran, 9.29-30
Nailed to the ground, I see only
the sweat-darkened fetlock of your horse,
still more graceful than the foot of my mule.
Blood washes away the taste of my
servant's mint tea--I recall her downcast eyes
as she took her wages and that bit of stew.
We eat little at our age, my wife and I.
A child shrieks--I remember my servant's son,
so small, though the eldest, carefully wiping the step.
Blood spatters into my eyes, my ears ring.
I welcome the darkness, the absence of sound,
like our silent praying in the bare synagogue
beneath the unpatched roof.
Your blows now indistinguishable
as the unmarked graves
concealing our dead from your desecrations.
However little could be left of me,
ransoming my corpse will impoverish my wife.
If only I could tell her to leave me for the dogs.
previously published in The Other Side of Sorrow: Poets Speak Out about Conflict, War, and Peace Editor: Pat Frisella. (c) 2006, Poetry Society of New Hampshire
copyright 2006
Aire Celeste
Norell |
