Nadia

Marrakech: the grey hairs of 
Atlas, streaks of the light of years, 
like truth accompanied by a bodyguard.
 

It is not war: the fast tumble 
is no war, Nadia.
 

Two pendants, each of hearts, and 
the silvery lock leashed unto time; 

Is no war: but the travesty of distance, 
And this moment, a full breast glistening 
out of the moon, the darkened streets 
and hooded, like the lawless, 
stranger or wayfarer: 

It is the pod streaking with milk 
smelt so close, it vanishes, 
like the gecko abandoning her tail.
  

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