Sleeping with the windows open
a slide of silk across my breasts,
Rumi or some other man sings sweetly
in the shower.  I don't know
where I am, but it may be Morocco,
this dreaming of overripe fruit -
the slick of flesh across my lip,
between my teeth, the grit of
persimmon seed, the pit of a
rotting plum .  Below, in the alley,
three men fight over twice rolled dice
in the bright of policecar headlights.
Tonight the air stinks of patchouli
rubbed into my back, my legs, my belly -
was that last night, or the night before? -
the taste of hashish on a cigarette.
That  dark haired girl is still running,
a jingle of her small gold bells licks
at my ankles.  In the market, old ladies
keep knitting the same old sweaters
while Ana´s Nin wrestles in agony
with her new lover, not her husband,
not another peddler of words.  This one
remains silent as she comes again,
small flames flickering across the ceiling,
the walls a riot of what you cannot see
come morning. Kiss me again,
strange darling;  raise my bare hips
into moonlight. It is now nearly sunrise
and the scent of curry on your tongue
has awakened the neighbors.

Penelope Davis Greenwell

If you've any comments on this poem, Penelope Davis Greenwell would be pleased to hear from you.

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