The Wazir’s Daughter

I tended my garden oasis with ease,

a silvered grove of nut almond trees.

Occasional water, occasional care,

the way to paradise seemed clear:

wait for siroccos to dump the seeds,

dry and shell them, then pound to paste,

combine with sugar and flour to taste,   

then bake in clay ovens hot as the day.

When after prayers the night has cooled,

arrange the cookies on copper trays,

and wash them away with sweet mint tea.

These steps I followed each day of my youth.

Then a comet streaked by the muted dunes,

and I dreamt a poem of an almond moon.

You said you would only share my sweets

when served with the blood of oranges.

I prayed, I bartered for two paired seedlings.

Craving more water than almond trees,

they suffered three years to bear their fruit,

but were never picked by itinerant winds.

Then on that night you wandered in.

Unlike the thousand nights before,

you saw by the tray an orange splayed

and the empty space where you chose to stay.

While we still sipped tea by the evening breeze,

we drank chilled juice in the blistering noon.

Then a falcon swooped on a hunting run,

and I dreamt a poem of an orange sun.

Then we grew old, and now we are gone.

Our sons and our daughters (and theirs and theirs)

tend to the almond and orange groves.

Passing storms still shake the trees,

cookies are baked and served on trays,

the comet returns each year in three,

the falcon floats on the lifting swells,

and the tea still draws from the tribal well.

The almond moon and the orange sun

go round and round in the desert sky,

and our stars stretch in between.

Perhaps in their motion I still might dream

how in their world our limbs entwine,

and how did your nature root in mine.

The Wazir’s Daughter (Redux)

I’ve been thinking about this 1001 Nights scam,

and something about it doesn’t seem right.

I mean, it sounds like a cover story,

something to keep her daddy off her back,

and something for the king to keep

all his wives off his back,

while they engaged in less verbal activities

(if you catch the way the sand dune drifts.)

Jesus (oops, sorry, I mean),

Sweet Mohammed (PBUH)!

1001 nights is almost three years

and even a man with the patience of a king

isn’t able to listen to a woman that long,

especially one telling tales.

And this “king” thing.

I thought the Arabs called their leaders

sultan, or caliph, or sherif, or emir.

King is a western title,

makes me think the whole book is a crock,

written by westerners

(sort of as if an Arab wrote the “Canterbury Tales”

but had all the pilgrims going to Mecca.

(I know, I know, there’s King Farouk and King Saud,

but these were modern guys, wanting to fit in,

and whatever, she was telling so many stories,

who are you going to believe?))

written by westerners

wanting to make the desert seem romantic

(almond moons, orange suns,

caravans of belly dancers,

long, cool nights in the oasis,

mysterious eyes in the Kasbah)

so we’ll plop down the fare

for a Saudi Arabian Airline ticket.

Listen, believe me, I’ve been there.

It’s no paradise:

the sand is full of these tiny fleas

that bite, bite, bite you,

and when they’re done,

they bite, bite, bite you again;

it’s hotter than hell during the day,

and colder than space at night.

And it’s dry, dry, dry

(you can’t get a drink, and I mean that both ways.)

So, you have to be careful where you go,

and bring a lot of water with you,

or you’ll get lost in the desert

and shrivel up,

and die, die, die.

It’s not a very Christian place.

And speaking of Jesus,

his mum told the mother of whoppers,

to get God-Knows-Who off her back;

by comparison, Sheherazade was a nun.

Anyway, I figure

since it all took place in the desert

(where we’ve established there’s not much to do)

it wasn’t about the stories,

but the two big jugs of water

she carried around with herself.