Water Dome

for Jazzi

snazzy peaches,
i am so far and with you

from those shards of sunlight on icy fields
on cycling mornings that must be getting colder,
from here it is hard to believe that they exist:
landscapes away, i can try to imagine
the smokiness in the air and the stars after six,
the persimmons in the market and the dry mouths they leave behind,
the seasoned almonds on the kitchen tables: orange cinnamon, coffee, honey and lemon,

or highway and
barbed wire and
flattened yellow grasses under slices of metal

but i lost your body here:
slow walk straight back deep breaths and i thought i had healed
on a misty evening, around cobblestones sinking in dirty water
we were hand-in-hand, coming from the Turkish bath
an old woman in an apron leaned against her doorway and told me I was beautiful –

what things we believe in and don’t believe in.
six thousand miles cannot be the same world,
i was so far, i did not believe the newspaper’s photograph,
but i believed after
the palm of my hand on cool tile,
a sign that read, “the most beautiful Arabic poetry,”
crying while I ate an apple,
a day somewhere between inshallah and inshallah,
smell of greasy meat at the end of my street and men still catcalling as she
put her arms around me,
the cat leaping to the edge of the clay pot to drink rainwater in the Andalusian garden,
the monkey in a red sweater at the end of a chain

every moment like the suspension
of a droplet of water
on the surface of a penny

snazzy peaches, i am re-reading Auden, the illusion of safety,
singing a lullaby in the room in Meknes,
domed ceiling, a tiled floor, a worn wooden bench
that I did not sit on because
a pretty rectangle had been carved out of the middle,
sensing the notes would burst, too full, overflowing,
finding your laughter in the faded indigo of that museum,
in all those things you made, could not have been without you

you were smiling in the aftertaste of smoke
in the glass of water I had this afternoon,
Yusef told me, a Moroccan specialty,
apparently it keeps scorpions away,
well, anyway,
i am believing
in all kinds of crumpled magic

since you have been so
far gone with me

Boat Under the Orange Tree

Under the orange trees,
he turned to me and said,
scratch that, all things are beautiful

could he feel
the kitchen table under my elbows,
the taut muscles of my father’s face
tendons like fists, then ropes
the wince, the rocking motion,
what an ugly thing
war is

fingering the dullness.
leaves of an olive tree,
a skirt that swallows dust,
a lime in a girl’s mouth,
skin stinging under fingernails
in the dives of birds over the orchard,
do I not love the world enough?

she is taking a little break from herself now.
her shadow has left the house now,
she cannot
hurt bodies
without it.
standing on a rooftop in Rabat,
she knows her shadow is the fog
fossilizing the city by evening

she has gone to retrieve it in the waves
that touch her like cotton
and recognize her skin, even the hem of her skirt
and she is trying to remember if God forgave the princesita
who stole the star in Darío’s poem. She thinks God did.
she wants to know if it is okay to take one from the tile
by the unfinished mosque

perhaps this is the limit of language.
beautiful does not witness
the nightmares of veterans who sleep with guns,
the pinky of a lynched man in a jar
on the shelf with the family heirlooms,

the way her voice rose and I was afraid it would shatter
when she was too still, and she said, so guess what?
guess what I saw washed up on shore yesterday?

beautiful had not been walking with her
when she had seen
the odd thing on the beach,
the panicked woman who pointed, who pointed and said,
I know what that is, I know what that is,
I study biology –
it is a human fetus,
that is a human fetus

her voice rose and I was afraid it would shatter
and under this orange tree,
there is the shape of the boat,
and the texture of the wood,
and I am wondering who was there if beautiful wasn’t

Sacred

I. Indigo

Paint your city indigo
and place it at the heel of the mountains,
at the edge of the rainforest

Name it
for the twin peaks like horns,
or for a saint,
and pave it with cobblestone

Make a quiet
rainfall
and a silky
fog lift
and a sun that will
breakthrough

to reflect
whitewashed indigo
like the freshwater of the lakes in Chiapas

Build a place for prayer
on a hill overlooking the city
a mosque, or a raft
and climb or glide, but do not swim
when you hear the call to prayer –

sometimes a marriage procession,
or the voice of the muezzin,
or a dancing boy and his tambourine

II. Rosary

Crammed between tables of Moroccan men,
in the outdoor seating of a café,
over a glass of mint tea,
I would like to tell you:

Civilizations do not clash in me
anymore –
perhaps they never did

I know I am not made of oil and water
because I am blurring continents, smearing oceans
with the edge of my left hand

I know I am café nusnus
because I am momentarily unsure
whether the woman in the mural
is a Muslim or a Zapatista,
because I am speaking Spanish to my African mother,
watching Mexican telenovelas in darija,
searching for Córdoba in Marrakech

My spine is a rosary
And I carry places like prayer beads.
Run your fingertips
down the middle of my back
and you will see that I am whole,
not split,
soft-skinned and another shade of coffee

you will be surprised,
as I still am,
at the length of my spinal column,
at the distance between vertebrae –
thirty-three places of origin,
and I have not returned to all of them yet

my birthplaces are cuauhnahuac,
close to trees,
sometimes named
for the horns of a cow or a goat,
but when you touch the curve of my spine,
you will see that I have emerged
from the city where it is always spring,
from the inside of an oak,
from a tree with purple bark in the mountains of Oaxaca

you can trace my roots
in the syllables of my last name,
listen to my father’s love of the earth
when I tell you who I am,
hear the sweat and soil whisper
that I am his daughter

and when you reach my sacrum,
and feel the fused bones,
you will understand why I cannot distinguish
between some of these places

Alegrías in Rabat

because I am afraid my steps would break this tile
with their zapateado –
because my feet will not listen if I say
shh or don’t –

I let them weave
fleeting choreographies on medina streets at night,
dance invisible threads
around dangling hooves and fluorescent lights and the paling heads of goats,
between heaping spices in burlap bags and men frying meat for the 7:30 rush,

rapid taconeo around steaming snails,
young boys and their shoe pyramids,
wheelbarrows of cactus fruit and watches,
pointed leather slippers and lingerie

until I am only an embroidered Mexican dress
and an oily fishtail braid
blurring with satin and wool djellabas in the hearts of North African cities,
my steps humming the paintings of Frida Kahlo,
lending movement to My Dress Hangs There

the soles of my feet sing that like me, she would have liked
being pulled to the inside of the storyteller’s circle,
out from between the bodies of men,
another woman who wants stories, too

I am asking my feet to find the compás
to blend the reggaeton in my waist,
the alegrías in my feet,
with the Arabic syllables in
Moroccan rap and Egyptian love songs

this city makes enough sound
that even my heels do not miss the nails of my flamenco shoes –
after all,
in sandals I am almost barefoot,
and I think perhaps that this
city will love me faster
if she knows the shape of my feet

Hummingbirds

beside this ocean,
(I am told that North Carolina is out there, somewhere straight ahead)
men shift their weight from rock to rock
steady their fishing poles in gray late afternoon light

not a beach for swimming,
Hind told me in her silvery voice, pointing out
cross-currents and waves like teacup shards

beside this ocean,
neither Hamza nor I
could speak this language yet
and he wanted only to toss pebbles,
pluck them from my palms

now it is sunset,
and just as I think,
maybe there are hummingbirds in these waves,
she says,
I never realized there was so much movement in water,
if that makes any sense

Mélange

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 with gentle shriveled laughter like dried fruit

he taps the table

when the sheep in the loft looks at me

and points to the cages

when the yellow birds sing

He asks how many hours from

San Francisco to Rabat? and how do you say in Spanish? and he points,

borrego - borrego - borrego - until he gets it right

inhale of ammonia and livestock,

folded hands on stained tablecloth -

I think I have been here before

In the prayer room,

I speak French braids,

Hind's hair thick and oily with the

tangles of the medina,

Kerima's soft and clean from the

new apartment in Salé,

and Saida's is long, long, long and

falling from her head scarf in waves

and 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,

unsure of what is at the core

of these concentric circles

Woman of the place where the sun sets,

I am migrating from west coast to west coast

and I liked that you believed me when I said

I've been here before

and I am

two blocks from the Atlantic

but still I forget, this is edge of the world

"The Crisis of Rainfed Crops"

what are you burning by the side of the road?

desert decorated with

blue plastic bags,

dainty twisted candy wrappers,

oily paper towels,

but cactus fruit flesh degrades in the dust

what carcinogens are seeping into this desert?

landless bodies,

hint of lead in the tajines by the side of the road

he called this the crisis of rainfed crops

but he did not say if this drought ever began

a poem and a song for departure

"Leap Before You Look" by W.H. Auden

The sense of danger must not disappear:

The way is certainly both short and steep,

However gradual it looks from here;

Look if you like, but you will have to leap.

Tough-minded men get mushy in their sleep

And break the by-laws any fool can keep;

It is not the convention but the fear

That has a tendency to disappear.

The worried efforts of the busy heap,

The dirt, the imprecision, and the beer

Produce a few smart wisecracks every year;

Laugh if you can, but you will have to leap.

The clothes that are considered right to wear

Will not be either sensible or cheap,

So long as we consent to live like sheep

And never mention those who disappear.

Much can be said for social savoir-faire,

But to rejoice when no one else is there

Is even harder than it is to weep;

No one is watching, but you have to leap.

A solitude ten thousand fathoms deep

Sustains the bed on which we lie, my dear;

Although I love you, you will have to leap;

Our dream of safety has to disappear.

"No+llorá" by Bebe

He estao durmiendo a dos metros bajo tierra, y ahora he decidio dormir sobre la tierra.
He pasao tanto tiempo lamentando lo que no entendía, que ahora prefiero que me den la clara del día.

No, no, no, no
No más llorá

Empieza mi viaje en la carretera
Por fin camino sola
En mi casita con ruedas
El tiempo será pa mi lo que yo quiera que sea
Nunca un nudo, nunca un muro
Solo lo que yo quiera

Recorro montañas, desiertos, ciudades enteras,
No tengo ninguna prisa
Paro - donde quiera
La música que llevo
Será mi compañera
Ahh, ahh, ah

Aprendí a escuchar las noches
No pienso enterrar mis dolores
Pa que duelan menos
Voy a sacarlo de dentro
Cerca del mar
Pa que se lo lleve el viento

Hoy pa mi la burra grande
Ande que ande o no ande
Que la quiero para cocer
Al que me importune este cante
Que tengo yo en mi soledad, cientos de canciones
Tararea empeza y sin acaba
A punto, a punto de -
Que yo tengo yo en mi soledad
Cientos de canciones tarareas
Empeza y sin acaba, a punto, a punto de estallá.

Y algunas que nadie jamás quiero que comprenda
Porque son pa mi na ma,
Pa mi corazón
Pa mis pensamientos,
Pa mi reflexión,
Pa mi.

No se cuando volveré, no se donde llegaré,
No se que me encontraré, ni me importa, no, no

California Was Never Kansas

I can't tell anymore

where this valley ends and where my body begins

driving the length of California

I am shedding potentialities,

rejecting visions,

brushing off hallucinations from my lips and my waist.

not long until

skin ripping

from the contours of the buttes,

from this canyon like a womb

what they don't know is that

my body

is malleable, transplantable

and what they don't know is that

my body

absorbed this landscape,

acorn soup and antibodies,

poison oak immunity -

you would think I am native,

you would think I am what you are

they called me Mulan, asked if I am Puerto Rican,

but I am my mother's little brown Indian,

and I am told I can pass

even 6,000 miles away

our postman asked if I will be wearing only black.

the athletic goods store owner shouted that the problem is that all the Arabs have 10 children.

her husband told me the goddamn Arabs would never respect a Western woman.

he said, "You won't be in Kansas anymore, honey."

I cannot tell when I became from this place,

I cannot tell how many epithelial layers I share with these frightened men

who don't know that California was never Kansas.

these fearful men who don't know about sixteen years old and

"Wanna fuck?"

from a white man with a shaved head who thrust his penis at me and followed me in his car

these threatened men who don't know about early June,

a grin and a hand on my upper thigh as I walked a street in Hollywood in shorts

these men who cannot know

the relief of remembering that

my body will be a secret, for once -

I will bring with me

sycamores in a dancer's arched back,

the branches of oaks in the angles of flamenco arms,

creek water in my veins

but the men on the street will see only a castle tumbling into the sand,

honey eyes

coffee and cream skin

in a hammam,

a Moroccan woman will scrub every inch of me,

the caked and damaged cells

will drift down the plumbing of Rabat.

I will be raw and new.

I will tell my hair, "Listen! You cannot speak in that tone to the air."

at night, we will whisper to each other

about the things we've seen while hidden

and the things we've heard while quiet

la poesía de otros

I've spent a pretty big chunk of my life reading, listening to, watching, reciting, memorizing, and thinking about the poetry of others: the poetry of Rubén Darío in my father's declamaciones, the ballads of early 1990s Jewel albums, my mother's reservoir of questions, my father's garden, Pablo Neruda's Veinte poemas de amor y una canción desesperada, the soft and dappled verses of Naomi Shihab Nye, the flamenco performances of my teachers. Yesterday the rich voice of Robin Thicke, today the new sounds of Arabic.

Sometimes, I think I am too caught up in theory, ten-page papers about 18th century literature, all-nighters, this assignment of 'critical analysis.' I remember the people who have told me that I try too hard, that I need to relax. But fortunately, I eventually remember that I'm caught up in all of this analysis because I do love la poesía de otros, because I want my own words to soothe and bite and bloom, and because to make strings of words that will do so, I have to explain the poetry of others first.

So here's to la poesía de otros. See my brief piece on the death of the wonderful human being Facundo Cabral here. See my (academic) analysis of W.H. Auden's poem "Spain 1937", which won second prize in the Emory Elliott Memorial Prize competition, here.

July 4th, 2011

Driving east on Sunset Boulevard yesterday
from Malibu to Echo Park, somewhere between
Brentwood and Beverly Hills, we marveled at
broad clean streets lined with palm trees and pillars,
the striped and starred patio chairs, the
flags fluttering in the breeze coming in from the beach

We spilled cynical complaints about the patriotism of wealthy Americans
onto the twists and turns of the Palisades,
and laughed a little at the way
these people think
they can realize the philosophy
if they change the application

Today smog coats my skin,
unpatriotic, hyper-academic, brown skin,
expensive coffee shop in a gentrified neighborhood that serves
too-sweet chai,
content until the man in the glasses with the salt and pepper hair at the next table
asks me what we are doing here,
working on July 4th.

Polite smile,
but last year on Independence Day,
amanecimos temprano,
parked beside one or two cars at Horseshoe Lake,
walked the Yahi Trail all the way to Bear Hole.
The water was deep and cool and fast, we
submerged ourselves in Sierra Nevada snowmelt.
Around 10 or 11, a few other people
scrambled down the rocks, surprised to see us
early risers, already swimming

Today is L.A., and my
throat yearns for meadows and
fish darting around my ankles.
Elbows resting on one man’s SSA disability documents,
I think of how I pay my rent and buy my food
by convincing a court that he is too depressed to sustain a job,
I remember
Marcuse telling me in urgent black type
that we are all enslaved to work,
to economies

With more Marcuse in my skin, I would
ask the man next to me to tell me about all the July 4ths he’s spent
independent,
pursuing happiness

This space

This space:

This is not a log, a journal, a record, the meeting place of pen and paper. Books do not belong in the background of this page because it is a stake in the virtual wild, not in fiber and ink. This is a volatile, ephemeral, transient space; it is not a space that will give way to fixed words or texts sacred for their permanence. I still turn printed pages, write in the margins, press the edges of sticky notes with my fingertips, open my notebooks much earlier and more often than I will open this page. But this is a space for sketches, for poetry of place. Paracaídas: parachutes. This place is a parachute.