Poste Maroc, Tangier
25th July 2014


Of course it would have been better if I’d sailed here.
With luggage, carried by other people. Here is the stuff
of legend. Magic and poison. The daytime stuns me.
Airless, airless. I need to cool down, drink another glass
of mint tea. Everywhere I look there are blackberries.
(There is nothing in my hand). Gide, Bowles, Burroughs,
Capote, Highsmith, Williams. They came to do as they
pleased. My choice is uphill or downhill, getting lost
either way. A linen suit. A ceiling fan. A gin & tonic.
A cigarette holder. But that’s him. The godfather of Morocco.
I feel for him. After independence he became paranoid.
Preoccupied with violence. Telling stories of wicked maids
and switchblades. Knowing about the men wandering along
the riverbeds. He looked like a different person, with her.
And then he never did go back. Can I even say something?
I spend my nights waiting for Aïcha Qandicha, knowing she
won’t come to me. Can’t bewitch me. I’ve read about the
running water, the mothers’ voices and her camel legs.
I’m lucky; I don’t need to carry a knife or steel.
Audrey Reynolds, Morocco