Afterward We Drink Cup After Cup of Mint Tea

I wander narrow streets.

An old vendor's delicate hands

winnow spices in burlap bags. 

A turquoise arch above a dark stairway.

Veils hide nothing that can't be said 

with the eyes. I have to look away.

In the corner a mahogany Victrola,

the needle bobbing on the surface 

of a black sea. Scheherazade.

She takes oils from a scrolled box,
jangles follow her movements,

faint tremors across my skin.

A donkey brays in the street.

I will remain lost here

for as long as it takes.