I was wearing a
cotton nightgown
printed with tiny,
pink bouquets caught
in thread
arabesques. It was gathered
above the breasts,
tied together into a halter.
I had been dancing,
and now my cousin
and I sat, side by
side, my legs propped up;
we were
reading. Now I am the one
who wishes, as he
did when I was eleven,
my skin soft as a
rug under a pilgrim's
foot. His tentative hand traced the calf's
curve and stayed
there, fingers in the spot
behind the knee,
then over my kneecap.
In Al-Azhar last
month I had to wear a scarf.
It was a square of
opaque blue and green
that matched the
cotton print I wore,
a big shirt with
sleeves; a wrap-around skirt
hung to my Mephisto
walking shoes.
I took off my socks
as well, and crossed
the warm marble acre
of white courtyard.
Fatimid stone trees,
shaped like ziggurats,
perched along the
walls above. Pigeons
flew in and out of
dark arches,
landing in the
chandeliers' giant lit
fishhooks. The chink of crystals,
a cool air through
my nostrils.
A cooing interwoven
with the men
intoning whatever
the arabic alphabet said,
lounging on their
elbows, odalesques
in galebeyas and
skullcaps.
My feet crossed
woven mat, then carpet
patterned with
prayer rugs for l,000
men to crouch
down. Rows
of mosque lamps
swung, turned
in the hands of the
wind. I made him
stop; there at the
skin inside my thighs
I put my hand on
his.
Leaning from the
third floor window
of a chinese restaurant
the day before,
I'd watched men wash
before
the call to
prayer. I could see them
through their window
bend forward
towards invisible
sinks, see their hands
reach onto the
window ledge, close over
bars of green soap,
pull their feet up
to the sink, push up
their sleeves,
stroke water over
their forearms,
roll their hands
over their black hair.
With his finger, one
washed inside his mouth.
A young man sat on
one of the rugs
rolled open in the
courtyard below
the restaurant. He stared up. He had
a wide bar
mustache. His eyes
chased over me. I was not
supposed to look.
When I left
Al-Azhar, a group of men,
the young ones in
shirts and pants,
the older in blue or
grey galebeyas
and white wrapped
turbans, came
through the
gates. I made way, for they
carried on their
shoulders a small coffin.
First published in Chelsea.