Classic Poem

Here is the scene: She follows him.
He follows her. The soldier patrols
the square. And the gypsy man shudders.
She continues her watch.
On the road perhaps he will be waylaid.
But he was made to take this role,
the part of him who pursues the dream.
The royal guards must detect him.
He is lost, and
he is lost to her.

In the streets of Madrid, Jerusalem removes
her blouse. She is naked and hungry.
Looking out the windows in the evening
Madrid recognizes her and closes
all the doors.
Fear drinks the glass of sweet wine.
And Madrid drinks the blood of her own children.
He is lost. And she walks.
But the birds fear her
since her loss, and curse
their own nests.

Wherever he has been she follows now
to ask about him.
Any distinguishing marks?
Oh, don't you know? He crossed the sea
without a ship. He burned all his cards.
He died. And no one in al-Sumainah grieved.
No one wept for him. No one dug his grave
with spearheads. The spearheads lie mute
in the museum showcases.
He sinks his eyes into them.
The spears turn into books.
O Arab homeland, chained with sands,
take a page out of this book of spearheads
and ward off the Mongol horses that stand ready.

I gather your letters and scatter them.
I see you hesitate,
postponing your promises
Come toward me.
I will show you the boundaries,
the edges of your hands,
of your chains.

Those who wake up with her
wander with her from coffeebar
to coffeebar.
In the night they wipe her face,
scent it, and sleep beside her.