2 September 2002 | Vol. 2, No. 3

Amman, 1997

by MAYA PINDYCK

The blood stain on the chair

in our bedroom at the four-star hotel

does not bother me.

I am too busy leaning out the window,

pressing into the heavy air, thick

with noise, where violent smells of spices

loosely hang

and moths dance drunk off the heat.

A woman sits on the ground smoothing

dough with her hands. Camels sleep

through the war waged by fat insects,

fighting to land on those lolling heads.

A boy stands guard outside the public bathroom

demanding 'One dinar!' from tourists,

digging pocket-deep for coins. Men stroll

down the streets like sepia kings,

leaving dark murmurs behind them.

At daylight women joined them

but none do now that darkness has released

with wild new life.

I recognize this music. It also plays in Israel,

in cabs, on sidewalks, in Arab tongue—

it has been inside me for years.