Aladdin’s Lamp, March 4, 2003: on the eve of first strike in Iraq

Out of a dream 
a fragrance overwhelms me: 
not saffron, not lavender 
but something in between: 
the aroma of Grandma’s Rose Jar 
on the bookshelf above our bed: 
lid of amethyst-embedded silver 
lifted from fluted glass coddling 
six generations of rose petals, 
savings of life and death, savor 
salted to dry, settle, never to fill. 

Arabian Nights perfume with scent and vibration 
my half waking to rub Aladdin’s lamp: 
See the Genie tell his Semite brothers 
Jews and Arabs, “Wait.” In some aroma 
is written a message also to my torn world 
bludgeoned by hatred, “Wait.” 

I confess bewilderment. Was I coaxed in 
by something too big to see over except 
by dream? By prayer? With the acrid smell 
of war in every headline 
am I simply scared with needing 
the compromise that will be a human thing, 
admittedly the hardest part? 

But there she is: My Bedouin woman I met 
in her goatskin tent thirty years ago 
now shining with sand the lamp 
to free you, Genie: Over oceans and continents
unfurl your aura for my Americans here 
bent on battle in that far-off land: Take up 
the gaps between ideas, 
let them relish the scent of peace.