A river in the Sahara,
The Niger
Berber for river,
Like a dog dancing on its hind legs,
Perhaps not done well,
But miraculous nonetheless.

Now a chain of muddy pools,
Meandering to the Atlantic.
How can we link them?

In the cool of the night we weep
In the declivities between the dunes.
We weep soundlessly salt tears that flow
Uselessly through drought-stricken farms
To the salt sea.

We weep for sons carried off by plague
We weep for sons afar
In green valleys
In apple orchards
That sense the frost.
They fell dying trees
And burn their sweet wood.
Our sons in vineyards within sound of the sea
Clipping grapes into baskets
The vineyards
Drinking mist at night.

We weep for our daughters
Nursing never-seen grandchildren.
They have forgotten our tongue
And speak the language of their mothers-in-law.

We weep for the city buried in the dunes
In whose alleys we played
Within sound of the market
Babbling with bargaining.
In the shade trays of figs and olives
Pine nuts and loaves spiked with rosemary.

We learned to play the oud
Our small fingers plucking strings
Over the fretwork.
We sang of love and sighs,
Love lost, love regained.
We learned the dance steps.
The elders placed our feet and arms,
Tilted our heads, shaped our gestures.
They taught us the steps and the myths
That go with them.

We learned to read
And everywhere were frail books for pennies,
We read in doorways and under tamarisks.
We traded books made of sheets as thin as kite paper,
Handsewn
And awaited the bookseller
With his jumbled bag.
Someone helps us weep
She sings of a god who looked over his shoulder
To see his lover fall back into the underworld
She draws out the vowels
And the melody is simple.
Soon by moonlight we will launch
Our raft of inflated hides
And drift seaward
Out the estuary
To the islands
Off the coast of Africa.