The singing starts at dawn. Through an open
window at a hotel in Cairo, the haunting
notes, somber voice, of a muezzin
calling the believers. All over the world,
women rise from their beds, hands moving
through air like an aria. Raised veins
on the undersides of the Cleopatra
butterfly give the appearance of a leaf—
a protection from predators.
Outside the Temple of Kom Ombo,
vendors hawk trinkets to tourists.
Men, mesmerized by flaxen hair, chant
Beautiful woman! Beautiful woman!
For you! For you! —
men selling scarves to cover our heads.
During the date harvest in Dahshur,
groups of women sit under trees. With fingers
like slender birds—sand piper, ibis, little gull,
kestrel, heron, golden nightjar—the women
sort an ancient fruit, their conversations
muffled by whispering palm fronds, stifling
winds circling the globe.
When you return home, tell of the dark-eyed
girl who ran past you—
her heart ablaze, her laughter a bonfire.
Say you grew strong in the arms of the Dead
Sea, how its mineral rich mud
covered your limbs like sleeves of armor.