Copyright 1999 Elizabeth T. Anderson
In Another Country
Sans Mes Yeux: A Tour of the Old City
1. He leads me through courtyards and tunnels,
over streets of stone, telling me stories of people
he is too young to have known.
At night, the Cathedral spire rises from pillars and
countless foundations to remind me
that all I can wonder about is how well I will know him.
Sometimes time stretches out before me like the lights
of a darkling city, calling me out into worlds
that move without light.
2. There is light on the table now.
I think it must have come for me,
careening through ancient corridors,
centuries of dust, to remind me
that I am a woman, and given the choice
between love and education,
I would always choose love.
There is nothing.
There is meat on these bones,
and between them, recycled passions,
desire.
3. I have American eyes that slice straight forward
with the sharp-edged sword of determination.
But my mouth can suckle and savor,
rolling these old world textures
over the ridges of my tongue,
developing taste.
4. There is life.
There is life. There is
irridescence, all around us,
pulling the mind backward,
pushing the sould forward,
leaving the body,
with all its recycled parts,
stranded in the infinite present.
History is all we can know.
Stories are all we can share.
On to Section Four: Requiem for the Dead Centuries
Exiled in Agadir
Palm tree shadows stretch
over pavement like brown fingers
on white thighs.
Abduld plays Bob Marley
and asks if I know what is means.
"Ganja!" I say, a little too
eagerly.
"C'est musique pour le gens
de l'Afrique!" he answers.
It's not for me, c'est pas pour moi.
But his French is better.
He says he can get me a job
where he works, selling leather
on the seaside to German tourists.
No documents necessary.
We listen to Joe Cocker karaoke
in the Jardin d'Leau, and I
have my doubts.
Nothing moves straight
or forward in Morocco.
Ambition amounts to nothing.
American as I was born to be,
my soul will not tolerate stagnation.
He says I have eyes
like the desert,
all sadness and wisdom.
I do not tell him
that already I feel
sweetgrass brushing
against my calves
and cold air pressing
past my face.