I come here to retrieve a shoe,
the pointed kind you see on the cover
of your Illustrated Arabian Nights, the kind
worn by Valentino in The Sheikh, except
this one had rubies and sapphires
arranged in a way I had never seen before,
and so I smiled when she gave it to me,
her name Habiba, a concubine from Fez who came
with the last caravan travelling North.
I tossed the apple to her
and when she climbed the staircase
shyness, that old Eastern virtue, radiated
through her veil like the sun at dusk.
I never thought I would love her so much.
She was with me the night the Spaniards came
bearing their crosses, clanking their bells,
after my head-Muhammad the Last, the last Moor
of Granada. I ran away with one shoe,
alone and defeated. Even the generous night
disowned me. The moon and stars shone
like searchlights. “Here he is. Take him,”
I heard them say. But no one came, not on that night.
At Gibraltar where Ibn Ziyad burned his boats,
told his soldiers the enemy is in front
and the sea behind, and there is no choice,
the waves clashing against the shore
gnawed at my soul, ready to pour over Andalusia,
ready to wash away all traces of my existence.
In Tangier I changed my name
and refused to gaze at the shore.
Five hundred years I have waited until you,
Tayib Salih, lamented on your loss,
a memory that would never leave you
as though it were a tumor on your brain.
The rainless days of Khartoum only
made things worse and you broke your pen,
gave away your papers to the peanut seller
to package his goods. In the courtyard of this palace,
the fountain maintains its ancient rhythm,
varying like an Andalusian maluuf, constant
as your mother’s voice reciting prayers at sunset.
I enter this monument to my departure
and lie flat on the floor, arms stretched,
right cheek pressed against the cold marble.
The guard says he has waited a long time for this
and starts to pour dirt over my body.
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