I Long to Go to Marrakesh

The Way to Marrakesh

By Zofia Barisas

A blue door stands cemented into the wall of grey and yellow stones.
A red bird sits at the top of a bamboo stick
That supports the newly planted eucalyptus tree.
A circular brick patio, surrounded by pampas grass thick as a wall,
Shelters under the ancient lime tree heavy with fruit.
Here a stone woman forever carries her basket of live flowers,
Next to the curved stone bench built from stones leftover from the wall.
A breeze ruffles the pampas grass.
Birds come and drink from the shallow clay dish
Set down between the tall bamboo and the monster ferns.
Mountains rise beyond the stone wall to the north, dry as bleached bones.
Looking south, past the green and gold wrought iron gates,
An expanse of red clay roofs below
Gives way to a view of the lake ringed by mountains.

Somewhere not far off, roosters crow,
And behind me, on the other side of the wall,
Children's voices rise and fall.
Here in my garden birds chatter and cicadas screech
In the evening when the air is still.

I long to go to Marrakesh to sit on a sand dune, outside the city doors, and look at infinity.

A turtledove, stunned from flying into glass
Sits under the breakfast table.
Its heartbeat against my palm outraces mine.
I put it on the patio ledge, where it rests for a moment and then flies away.

Ivy creeps over the arch to the garden,
Dwarf banana trees huddle in the corner.
The red stone virgin gazes down serenely from her niche in the wall.
Abdul glares from the wall above the in-ground water tank,
A scowl on his red clay face.
The men building the wall set it in between the stones,
Found some bones, laughed, asked if they could embed them above the head.
Abdul the cannibal guards the water.
A blue, red and yellow hammock hangs nearby
Suspended from two iron hooks set in the walls.

Eleven steps below the garden,
In the stone and brick driveway,
A concrete bench tiled in blue and white
Waits under a canopy of leaves and bright orange flowers.
To one side hangs a rusty lantern.
Above the bench a round, brick framed window looks out on the street,
Where the cross-eyed horseman rides by in the morning on one of his horses.

At night while I sleep,
The stealthy possum makes his rounds,
The squirrels dig long, deep tunnels,
Ants carry away my bougainvillea
And something finds its way into the fruit bowl
And leaves small-bite, scalloped-edged holes in the bananas.
While I dream of pink angels, flying in formation above endless meadows alive with unicorn,
The night artist rides by and leaves his writing on the wall below my bedroom windows.

I long to go to Marrakesh to lie on a sand dune, far away from the city walls,
Wrapped in a thick blue blanket, the only sound the wind passing along the surface of the earth,
The only sight of stars on an inky blue sky, and know simplicity.

Story ID:	2704
Written by:	Zofia Danute Barisas (bio, contact, other stories)
Story type:	Poem
Location:	Ajijic Jalisco Mx Mexico
Year:	2007