Scimitar moon, trembling the strings inside the piano. Scimitar against a vermilion sky, in Arabic, hilal. Curtains furled open like gardenias. Wind-flower, marguerite, friend of the night.

Friend of the night. No happiness so wide despair cannot cross. ‘If I see a red bird in my country will I know the color of a bird in another?’ Like the stream washing over the rock, not the rock. From the soul of her people she makes wine. Who leans out so far from the window?

Scimitar moon, a woman’s laughter untouched behind shutters, a stone house with red tile roof. The house moults from within, muffled strings inside a piano. Lanterns of fishing boats beading the sea. Lighthouse. Lighthouse. Lighthouse. From behind a scrim of cloud thin beams filter through a copse of oak. A vermilion sky, a memory.

Friend of the night. April’s anemone. Souvenir, sovenance, in Arabic, al-atlal. A rusted iron key, oaken door, the invisible white hand drawing the shutters in a stone house with red tiles. Who leans out so far from the window? Warm barricades. ‘If I see a red bird in my country can I know the color of a bird in another?’ There is no happiness too wide for despair. From their sweat she makes bread and jasmine. (more…)