Morning in the Medina dawns
as a chick unfurling itself from a newly hatched egg;
the first small crack runs into the second
and then the third, until the fissures
become an avalanche of noise
and rolling out, the new life that is the new day
opens its mouth and begins its feverish cry
The town wakes up, and brings me willingly with it;
the market square is an ongoing party,
and everyone is invited
Clichés converge like honeybees
on this axis of the world
where I watch a girl write a postcard,
skin pulled tight across her pretty skull
as she smiles to herself,
her able fingers gripping the pen
with the throb of the Taos Hum
earth-pulsing, then dissolving around her
In my pocket, a letter beats like an aching heart
and I grip it hard, as if to pulverise the thing
but just as much, I want to instigate a meeting
with this pale goddess - she
with the red riff raff hair, sparkling ankle bracelets
and bag of shiny purple plums
(which I can already taste and feel
bursting open in my mouth)
But as she moves, I am unmoving –
assuming a position of orientation on a graph;
I am the prime meridian as she devours
the lines of longitude and
I can only imagine the pact we make
as we say our ‘goodbyes’ at four that afternoon
with the sighs of doves surrounding us,
and regret hanging heavy as a sheepskin coat
Medina Morning
©crisstiena
Gold trophy winner
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