April 27th, 1981

Count them dear, eleven dwellings
nine moves in thirteen years,
each made with reasons—
our feelings set aside.

Wonder we escaped the decade,
darling—army, commune, graduate
school, workaholic think tank, teaching
—three babes chiseled from the womb,

Daylight enumeration ending.
One night there is a dream.
I’m an unmarried Muslim woman.
Just won’t fit into the mold.

My eyes burn satin black quicksand,
weave an icy lightning bolt. Frantic,
I insisted to bicycle holy through

The streets and knew exactly where
to go black veiled anonymous complete.
Soon I reach my destination whitewashed
cubist house of stone

Clear blue sky all around it
reflecting blue sky and sun
like bleach dry bones. There
the bush grey poet approaches

Me as I dismount, takes my small hand
to feel his heartbeat, begs that I come
to France to stay. He says he can make
me happy. In the years that lie ahead—

Companionship and comfort calling, luring
me from my cold bed. I reflect his invitation
wholeheartedly. I flee into the building—
enter my stark barren room.

A red-bearded soldier awaits me—
urging me to leave this place, telling me
Hitler’s army is close at hand—
a desecrating thieving band.

It can’t change my iron plan. I take three
shiny oaken wood steps. There
a gold-eyed bronze Egyptian princess
waves her turquoise-studded hair

In her cocoa hand, a message, “Come at once.”
I have it all. I make my own stone gray refusal.
I remain here wholly certain I can survive
Hitler’s army. Following, I die.

The black veil lifts. I awaken, understand
why I’m here. I’ve never left home,
my love. Migrations of eighties
have no fear.