Cascades of her hair
Didn't end
The migration of the invisible nation.
Year after year
On a horse
Galloping through the melodies
Of the
Mountain people
Who still
Sing in their tongues
As
You
This
& you
that
lingers over our kisses
and her
very gentle, almost unnoticeable
gesture
out of a belly dancing LP.
I measured her breasts with my
Almost
Mediterranean lips,
Scattering imprints everywhere
And asked her:
How do you say it in
Turkish, Kurdish or Arabic?
She blushed.
The cars on the corner
Started to move
On her red.
Her name rings like a chain of water
In the Garden of Bliss
Of Alhambra.
She touches my skin
So she can go home.
Sweet home.
Leaving a few wet spots
On the tips
Of
My fingers.

San Francisco, April 1995