WHO ARGUES WITH JACQUES DERRIDA BUT A FOOL?

“Il ny’a rien de hors-langue” JD

come from a wide square full of bodies
moving like dark sails in the harbor, sweet

figs, staying still impossible—quick eyes
hips, misty glasses of mint tea, salt dust

of Khamsin and Salano. Warning. If you fail
who you are, beware of straying camels

looking for water, halophytes, thyme and acheb.
Clapping, counting, speaking hands know

why your dress is longer behind your heels,
erasing footprints in the sand. Nobody traces

your blackened eyelids. Use the smooth
soot from yesterday’s fire. Look at the heat,

red clay on ears and lips, ancient lake lifting
a duende, older than any word, the hunger beat.

PUBLISHED IN CIDER PRESS REVIEW, Volume 24, Issue 1.