A Bedouin mirror hangs in the Jordan Folklore Museum.

My face appears in a headdress made with tassles of hair, brightly colored yarn, and silver coins.  I see the first ten years of my life (a very young bride mirroring myself the groom) by the mouth of the camera lens.

Dance 1
Dispossessed legs and feet move toward any disputed border. The piece concludes when they cross the border unharried.

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Dance 2
Blind legs are led forth by seeing arms inside any military state. The piece concludes upon release, when blindness disappears.

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Inside the maze, along its wall: evidence of paint’s passage through a cardboard template. This is obvious for gaps between the teeth of seen, one in a string of letters that make up a most desirable word.

I recall a pattern from somewhere; tuck it under the broken back of this shaken youth. I swab the skin quickly, positing that (if beauty were even possible) this beauty would torment.

(Officially, we are uncertain of the exact origins of this image — Iraq within the past couple years, by a photojournalist whose name we failed to note.)

I retreat into a labyrinth of curtains.

I emerge from behind the curtain of my slumber, finding myself on a stage in a large auditorium — an act of dubious talent — before an army of restless audience members.

I announce that I am there.  I make a few adjustments; sweep the unsightly into the shadows, move unlikely objects from view.  I even alter the mother of all symbols to coincide with the one I saw as a child.  I claim no feeling for it, only for the droop of its swag. 

I brush the plaque from my teeth and comb the lint from my hair.  I hold a glass of water in my hand as I head in.

The animal makes its presence known, bellows as I walk by.

And the uncertain maw — it seems to contract.  I crawl into its womb with hopes for a peaceful sleep and an eventual return to consciousness. 

I am the muezzin.

 
This is the announcement.

I am the muezzin.  From the balcony of my minaret I make an announcement. 

My lilting voice continues to echo through the city as I run back down the winding stairs. Before the people arrive and dancing begins I need to select the music. I need to vacuum the carpets. 

My Arabic classes are held in a room that opens out onto an interiorized palm grove. Above the trees is a translucent gridded ceiling which does not take into account the fact of growth.

Legions of fronded arms press through tiny square openings, finding life on the other side of this structural impasse.