BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS ADAM RASHID-THOMAS

Come in, We’re Open

Polishing, polishing his ingot with textile as geometric as the hamdan Hamadan rugs that congregate cylindrically in his forbidden boutique.

Polished metals: lamp and mirror dangle like dates on the Palm; his trade opening an oasis in the deserted bazaar, a boundless light, a shepherding star. I ambulate past amulets –the evil eyes antiparallel to the incense of jasmine and frankincense. I taste a floor with walnut husks, pomegranate pith, abluted clean. Chai sipped by a crescent face, in clear, cursive script, opened, read, closed, tied with silken lace.

Unpolished metals: hinged chains not from this province but a separate land. A new land beyond a land.

Did their people remember the smell of rose, of scented rice, of cottoned clothes?