pour mon ami depuis longtemps M. Mohamed Ali Daassa

We were walking all morning through the walled medinah of Sousse
dodging mopeds in the narrow alleys,
haggling with the shopkeepers in five languages,
savoring the sweet-smelling spices.

You boosted me onto the seawall that afternoon at Carthage.
I sat there; the wind blew my skirt my shoelaces my hair
(blown hair is sweet),
regarded the rocks and smiled down as you took my picture.

I walked thoughtful beside you at night in Tunis
and practiced reading Arabic in the brightly lit streets.
You explained bankomats to a small boy
asking his silent parents.

We were gazing at the sunset over Sidi Bou Sa'id, white and blue city,
men waiting there to fill their jugs with water from the holy fountain.
There was no sign there portending an answer for me,
only a waning silvery crescent in the lavender sky.

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