cane in hand
he shuffles
to the door
stares out
and see
no one
for no one
comes these days
most old friends
are dead
and
family
visit only
once a year
their time is
precious to them
but still
he stares out
it is the same
day after day
the ritual walk
like a groom awaiting
his wedding night
the longing looks
and the listening
for death
to knock
you were
so
concerned
with dancing
stars
who
will
win
how could they
endure
such a
rigorous schedule
but
while
you
sat there
i sat
here
a child
from darfur
my dried tears
are yesterday’s fears
not today’s
this arid place
holds my forgotten face
as if bound to a cross
my body aches
from the janjaweed’s
penetrations
this was no wedding night
with one
lover
it was satan’s army
i was
the victor’s prize
and so my tears
went unheard
your
god
my
god
did not intervene
nor did any
one
change
the channel
for fear
of missing
who
the
winner was
it
was
not
me
her eyes spoke to me
words soft and gentle
as if she was my mother
not an old lady
living on some arid hillside
cliff in tunisia
this has been her home
since she embraced her true love
and we
we
were but another set of staring eyes
peering through cameras
capturing disney-like images
for the folks back home
to be discussed over wine and hor d oeurves
noting of course
our ten minute climb to her home
as if it were worthy of a boy scout badge
but long before we entered her portal
she saw us coming
as she peeked out for the next
visit from some group of naive tourists
believing that they were the first to meet her
and capture her image on digital negatives
and so i wondered
why she would grace us with smiles
not the ones programmed to come on
when the visitation switch was thrown
but smiles from deep within her soul
as if greeting an old friend too long gone
her eyes quickly told me why
in this hillside village
little changed day-to-day
the mediterranean sun like her daughter’s visits
rose and set with such regularity
that even a saint would cry tears of boredom
but our futile quest for understanding her life
was a splotch of color on the drab walls of her existence
we were the observed
not the observer
so her eyes danced
and laughed
as she recalled her youth
and the contours of the years in her face
faded from my view
and all i could see
was her dancing on her wedding night
all i could hear
was the pounding of her heart’s passion
and then all i saw
was this beautiful berber woman
as a queen
holding court
in her palace
Read Between the Minds 