The “I” of Morocco

Roofline of the Fez Medina, Morocco

For Ali, who explained my name to me

In Arabic, my name means I.

Ana this, ana that.

I am called everywhere,

but I am not meant.

So I surrender to the collective self—

I in the souk selling oranges

                  with their leaves on.

I in the café filled with men

                  wondering at a woman.

I in the tannery lifting skins

                  through vats of urine.

I in the child kicking a faded ball

                  down a Medina street.

I in the man pointing to a pastry

                  with a bee stuck in sugar.

I in the petit-taxi holding out

                  a creased hand for coins.

I in the woman rubbing cheese

                  onto squares of fry bread.

I in the singers with blank faces

                  on the brink of desert.

I in the shepherd telling the sheep

                  his dreams.

Now, the world turns ana—

I am the river running beneath

the ancient city

over mountains,

to the sands.

I am dunes, pink in evening.

I am the sky above them as night falls.

The sky—wider than lives,

spacious enough to hold every hand

and turn each finger to a star

that points all I’s home.