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