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| Apron Garden Birds And Sky My father was the butcher of Marrakech known in market and minaret I studied his butchery every day and roughly learned anatomy A muscled stomach of a man looms above a ewe brought for Halal meat standing to one side he studies her eyes rolling, whitening and the tendons grow taut on her throat like a clothesline tongue pushes out in a bleat now he strikes! the cleaver moistly crunching the sound of rainstones under dusty donkey hooves her tongue's final alarm runs into the blood bucket This is not art but astronomer's precision he takes a step back, proud Then one typical day, a typical slaughter he wipes the blade on his belly and suddenly a vision: veins start to bleed up through the apron to be born a glistening newly arrived creature oh, how life is fire, is amaranthine contagion, molecules exhaled, bleated hopscotch here now here, into the bloodstream of a thousand thousands As hard as my father tried there is no death just endless shuffling the sheep released, now in me the apron, the garden the birds and sky |
The First Ship From Safi A few red dots on my saffron skirt and I was a woman father soon found out and convicted me to Hijab and our home to forget prowling the souq jasmine and honeysuckle boys and laughter sentenced me to study my mother wavering through the rooms her bruised eyes whitening a tablecloth forgot on a clothesline Time and again I tried to fortify her, unveil her and when he'd suspect my defiance would enlighten us with the fists of the most devout Muslim of Marrakech My cheeks are dry, my lip is wet I memorize the voice of the door he crunches shut like a cleaver and I study mother one last time trembling at me from her clothesline before resuming the chores No longer can I stand this fire, amaranth coursing through me Africa stretching out, unetherized wait for nightfall then a truck then boarding the first ship bound anywhere from Safi to put the butchery of men together again
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