Creative Writing 5
Sitting by a sandy city’s bistro
at a spot of lunch not long past,
words crumbling from damp mouths
drop strings of stubborn thoughts
as if months of things said had not said truth.
a lack of touch implying an unwant of carrying on
clogs his throat with a swallow of a burning mint drink.
words said burnt through as hot mint slid, burning down his throat.
Standing, an instant changing
with a flip of a long, midnight braid stomping away
from a usual lunchstand and pair of chairs.
a crowd sounds as if it was lulling and numb
nothing was auditory but a sound of solid boots
clunking away on a sandy city’s rock path.
Standing, too, sliding an iron chair backwards
to scud in opposition with a rock ground,
a man did not act against his woman’s conclusion
but simply stood, appalling and gawking without hostility.
a slight spasm shot through a long arm,
no touch of dark skin will warm against his unconvincing hand.
a visual of losing what had had familiarity
struck him as if lightning was bolting
into and throughout his thick, bloody circuits.
his body was lurching with convulsions of sobs
stabbing, suffocating, honing, aching,
all lunch chats with hints of smooth, mint drinks,
crispy toast, tomato, garbanzos and milk
spun into dust, spurring away with his woman’s familiar body
that was now acting as a quondam romantic.
with bombs of his pitiful wails,
his origin of romantic thought turns to vapor.
In an instant, a snapshot parting had lost an intimacy’s ring.
all sounds flood back, roaring with clangs,
buzzing with chit and chat of crowds
shouting, communicating with tourists
for cinnamon, pita, figs, kilos of fruits,
rugs, vibrant, swirling colors of plum and aqua
on bowls, trays and spouting, clay mugs
sir, how much! arabic, turkish, how much! kurdish
glowing pulp lamps with drawings of floral loops,
spring blooms of coral orchids falling from stands
as a man owning his shop fails to spot a crook snatching a posy for a fair woman.
down a chaining corridor of shop by shop, in rows fit for a king
sprouts goods as if souks sporadically spit colors
with volcanic bursts of gold, indigo,
paprika and cardamom, almonds, pistachios, sugars and baklava
burgundy and cyan against light, dull gypsum pots and jars
lacking all swooshing from a rainbow brush
but holding spirit just as loud and obnoxious as an adjoining shop of
paintings of arab towns and palms that downplay naturally vivid colors
sir, how much! coral, dark plums, how much! aqua, salmon,
old books with historical maps, stacking on stands
by gold chains and rings adorning with sparks of crystal, diamond, lapis, ruby and opal
glass bongs with twisting and curling ports, shanks and bowls
sir, how much! pounding calls for various, stupid artifacts
a hand of lira flung for a hand of cumin and basil
to soak and dunk on pitas with chilis and hummus
garb of Islam, long skirts and hijabs with florals, flaming colors and strong attraction
arms wailing to obtain gifts and curios, knick knacks and toys for young sons
crimson, maroon, lilac, dips of tahini, baba ghanoush and halva,
fuchsia, ivory tusks and wrinkling rhino skins atop lamps and wallhangings,
anything a dumbass could want was out, sprawling in this bazaar.
But this man’s body was stuck standing still among this bustling crowd;
his childhood darling, his woman, had spun away.
photo credits: https://zoharproductions.wordpress.com/2013/07/05/the-souk-a-middle-eastern-bazaar/