for Houcien
The vibrant souks of the Medina
may sink into my skull like an old knife.
If I die, my soul will roam this continent
with pleasure, along its fine shorelines,
garden of cactuses, and fumes of desert
rising above the Sahara where Imazighen men
feast on sand soup and camel meat.
In America, my body is made of mint tea,
before the first caffeine devotion.
I have no more gambit stories about my next move.
Exile is a broken thread of salty water
joined in part by WhatsApp stories
where my mother whispers tasa nu
and asks what I am having for dinner.
I will return to you, Marrakech.
In my dream, I will land like a stalk of rose
in a neighbour’s hands, before facing Jiblet
to renew a vow of dust and watch
common bulbuls settle on the green lids of Agdal
where the oud does not recede for thirty centuries.
I shall face Bahia with mosaic face;
I shall not eliminate the beauty of home.
