The roses of Al-Andalus
“Commune with your own heart on your bed and be still.”
― Maimonides Moses 1135-1204
The splashes of red, the heady bloom,
The opulent smell, patchouli oil, lingering.
In a marbled room: a certain slant of light,
Reveals these Andalusian roses creeping
Along the fence between Mudejar and Christian.
Between Morisco and Jew,
Between my lover and I,
Between me and you.
Such dirty sweet hauntings
Under the heavy crimson blue skies of Cordova
Fleeting days, gone like the burnings at the stake,
Like regret, regret, regret. Oh! These sins of omission
Threaten my life; make me wake in a sweat in the night.
Half alive, all affright.
See this person’s golden hand so thin and frail in mine.
We excavate the deep cells in Raqqa, in Granada, all through north Africa
All along the fault line, this earthquake zone
Between cultures, religions, races, histories.
These roses of Al-Andalusia shine in the stark bright sunlight,
Through which Maimonides, Jew-philosopher, so clearly saw..