74

Day drips to night

Becomes day again night,

Hours slowly pass without sound—

As I sleep in my bed scented with cardamom,

The night dancer spins in my room—

Or was she there always, that dark in the darkness?

Have I now found her,

The whispering voice of the doors?

And she moves to the rhythms of drums,

Slippered toes touching the floor,

Sounding like sails ruffling in wind.

Night dancer,

Let me show you the book of my life.

Please.

Here are the beards of my

Grandfathers, letters exchanged

By my parents, the moment of sun

In the groves—yes, I remember—

The songs and the schooling, the small

Dimpled pot, sorrel rug stitched in the corners,

The lists of my vanities,

Youth drunk with restlessness,

Poetry, typescripts, inventions,

Reports and bank statements, notes

From the dealers, the names of my lovers,

My French wife with blue eyes, children,

The land that despised me, my otherness,

Cruel looks in the street,

Longing for orange groves and sand—

Then my escape, flagrant abandonment,

Shame. It’s all here, I can certify.

Can you make dance from it?

Let me help. Tear out the bank statements,

Diary of lovers, reports from the schools,

Graphs and equations—surely none lyrical.

Compress the rest small as a grace note,

Lighter than breath. See how it floats.

There, it has slipped

Through the window, so weightless,

Like me, mingling with millions of particles,

Lost in the ocean of air.

Did it make one arabesque?