Hind calls me mélange with a smile —
but on a crooked side street she likes my accent
and in the hammam she tells me I scrub like the Moroccans do
Her father and I cannot speak
in this house in the Ocean,
but he taps the table
when the sheep in the loft looks at me
and points to the cages
when the yellow birds sing
Gentle shriveled smile of dried fruit
He asks how many hours
from San Francisco to Rabat?
and how do you say in Spanish? and he points
borrego — borrego
until he gets it right
I think I have been here before,
inhale of ammonia and livestock,
folded hands on stained tablecloth
In the prayer room,
I speak French braids,
Hind’s hair thick and oily
tangled like the medina,
Kerima’s soft and clean
from the shower in the new apartment in Salé,
and Saida’s is long, long, long
falling from her head scarf in waves
(the women laugh when I am surprised)
My feet are not dizzy
as I thought they would be
on the avenues of kings,
between Andalusian walls,
behind the mosque on the hill,
in the streams of the Turkish bath,
at the mouth of the Mediterranean
I say I am maghribiya,
watching tile explode like sun,
like feet dipping into freshwater,
not sure what is at the core
of these concentric circles
Woman of the place where the sun sets,
migrating from west coast to west coast —
I liked that he believed me when I said,
I’ve been here before,
two blocks from the Atlantic,
but still I forget, this is the edge of the world
© 2011 Tania Flores
Read the previous poem in this series, “California was Never Kansas.”
Tania Flores authors the blog, “pitaya and parachute sketches.”