Marrakesh (Morocco), 1880

(c) 2004 Aire Celeste Norell

Nailed to the ground I see only the foot of your horse the sweat-darkened fetlock still more graceful than the foot of my mule A blow Blood washes away the taste of my servant's mint tea, I remember her eyes brimming with tears of relief when my wife left her wages along with that bit of stew we failed to finish We eat little at our age, my wife and I Another blow A child shrieks, I remember my servant's son, so small—though the eldest the serious look on his face as he swept sand from the doorstep with a rag Another blow My eyes swell into an absence of light my ears ring into an absence of sound like our silent praying in a bare synagogue beneath an unpatched roof like the missing tombstones concealing our dead from your desecrations Another blow I must join the unmarked corpses However little could be left of me ransoming my corpse will impoverish my wife If only I could tell her to leave me for the dogs We are both sons of Abraham though I reject your warrior-merchant prophet I never learned to see your sister or her starving children as my enemy She refused my pity Does she pity me now? Or is there only shame to be caught working for a Jew?