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Saladin's Head
Under the solar system
in our basement I sat,
copying schematics of
superheterodyne radios
from a book on electronics,
while my dad, across from me,
stood at his drawing board
illustrating advertisements
for feed and farm equipment.
The floor was painted blood red,
the walls bandage white—
a battlefield made tidy.
The dehumidifier murmured its hymn
beneath Saladin’s ceramic gaze,
his turbaned brow inscrutable
as my father bent to sketch
a combine in perfect perspective.
And why Saladin’s head?
What did it mean to my dad,
this sultan of Egypt and Syria?
Did he admire the general—
or just like the look of him—
that calm authority,
that stylized beard?
Was it a joke I never got,
or a reminder
of some private war?
Saladin’s head—
commanding,
noble,
a little creepy—
still hangs
somewhere in my mind,
a relic or a riddle,
watching as I trace new lines
through circuits of memory,
searching for my father’s face.
Copyright ©
Roxanne Andorfer
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