I initially drafted a poem in a torn magazine during my flight home from Morocco, inspired by a culture that seems to exist outside from our familiar pace. It’s a nation often glimpsed only from the corner of our eyes, a quiet presence on the map of the world. Others, too, should pause to observe the wisdom of this remarkable African country. I saw a different me through their eyes and it stretched my views. It was chance that stood between their lives and mine. My trip to Morocco had culminated in a moment of unity, where all my possible identities joined into one. I saw my reflection in the faces of the people in this familiar land.
Unfolding
A tired city,
A bold country
sits patiently upon the edge of time,
exhausted by the fumes of starvation. Yet surviving,
Clinging.
Its heart beats below scorched feet. Thumping.
The noise resonates as heat rises from the dirt. Burning.
Their history scrawled out on the rays that part
the dust, casting shadows under their glossy hazel, brown, dark eyes—
So deep, they draw you in, and
Drown you, until you cannot see the end of their sadness. Poverty,
So blinding with cruelty that sands cut
by the sun’s silver nails, glisten like gold.
And then,
A language, spoken like a prayer,
foreign, complex—
You suffocate in their words and gestures.
I gasp for air in the fiery sky.
The pain of despair, indulgence all around
echo even in my sleep. They cry out in a plea
first loudly, a piercing whisper
then softly, strangling. Suddenly,
Utter, deathlike numbness
in the chalky, night sky,
mending their wounds.
I touched the memory with bony, feverish fingertips
and only realized I dreamt a myth.
In desperate silence
extending my hand to them as they do to me,
we reach for the golden wings of freedom.
–Jenny S.W. Lee (2003)
Places visited in Morocco include Casablanca, Marrakesh, Essaouira, Agadir, Mohammedia
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