Our New Old Home

Cordoba.
It’s been royal at least since the time
of the Romans. Even Hercules,
the great Greek, loved this city
of mine.

When the Moors conquered al-Andalus,
fair Cordoba, shut in by the Guadalquivir,
was the natural choice for their caliphate.
It became home to the head of all Muslims—
the caliph himself.

But the Moors were defeated a long time ago.
It has since been a jewel in the crowns
of our Christian kings. And now Isabella,
our gracious Queen, has arrived.
She’s set up her court in the grand alcazar.
I can walk to its gates
in two thousand paces, plus thirty-three.

Amid all this glory, we Benvenistes
must eke out our days in the space
that was once used for servants.
Our stuffy rooms squat like beggars
deep in the heel of this house.

It’s a fine house, you know:
as big as you’ll see along this whole street.
But it’s no longer ours.

When the Old Christians chased us
away from Cordoba, Papa said,
“There’s no choice.”
He knew of a place called Gibraltar.
We sold our fine house and ran
for our lives.

When we returned,
the house was still standing.
We were lucky—
few in our quarter still were.

But still standing, too,
was the man who had bought it.
He would not sell it back—
certainly not for the pittance he’d paid.

But he does rent us out
these four little rooms—
that’s counting our shop—
for a handsome price.
Should we, I wonder,
be thanking God
for our blessings?