ARABESQUE

One morning,

when I opened the window

the sun spilled on my Persian rug

like a huge cup of Turkish coffee,

bittersweet hot;

yet, retaining all burned grounds

for itself.





Had I been a Gypsy fortuneteller,

I could have read the signs in every spot I saw,

or I'd have called the news reporters

and, why not, I could have started

a healing business;

but I lack the marketing vocation.





Had I had children of my own,

I would have placed the rug in their room



to watch delighted how they crawl



and tumble and sit down on it



with picture books,



smeared top to toe by the caressing light;

but I have not been blessed with children.



What I did

was to slide the window,

and draw the curtains shut -

dazzle to my sight

there was this arabesque

sanguineous spill

in the velours grenat;

I kneeled on it and closed my eyes;

one after another,



all THOUSAND AND ONE NIGHTS

came back to me in wreaths,

like the bluish smoke from a nargileh,

like the aroma of dark roast Arabica,

like the sweet fragrance of blooming

orange groves,

and I heard the lament of lutes

and wailing muwassahas

composed by Yehuda Halevi



in times of peace and splendor



of Andalus.




"Open your eyes and watch me acting as your voice"



urged our Representative in Congress.

I did try for a while,

then I knew

I couldn't open wide my eyes again,

because my sight was sore,

very, very tired and old,

maybe as old as Sepharad;

besides

I left my specs either in Baghdad,

or in the Patio de los Leones,

and nobody, not even I could tell

the entrance or the exit of my hell -

this beautiful enchanted Alcazar



in which I will be groping

to my eternity.


©Elena Malec, California ,1997