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| 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.
