Lalla Fatma Zohra was the friend of a friend, and she and Moulay Arrouj, having had lunch with a mutual friend, bade him good-bye and, both being carefree in Fez for the afternoon, headed to Le...
The Sarah I have in mind is quite different from the “glamorous nymph” that Bob Dylan sings about as I write. She is a xenophobic paysanne with a plain accent; a powerful and until recently...
Lalla M’Zouda took pride in the thicket of her burning bush. “Gardens are the scene of assignation,” she told Moulay Aly. “First, your tongue is to brush, barely brush, the dew from the outer...
Dear Readers, These two poems are presented here together, because they are meant to compliment one another. Mustapha Marrouchi is as glorious, and grave, as ever. It is a privilege to continue...
For Kaouther Arms brighter than the light of a long summer day, breasts and hair to the taste of Hannibal, ginger, hale, and supple. “Has she no part in you, your mother?” I used to wonder aloud....
His name was Kochkar,
and for the past two years he’d worked as a loader,
traveling up and down the Nile with Hadhoud about five times a year.
His true field of expertise was botany,
which he’d...
Since Harun died–
was killed, that is–
Warda hadn’t had many visitors.
There was Khadduja,
who lived with her blind mother three houses down–
she sometimes came in for a cup of coffee in the...
