To the Bedouin Woman

Let me bring home your dark eyes 
and the secret of their holiness, 
your quick fingers and your fine 
pride in the black tent they weave. 
Let me secure your looped braids 
somewhere in my tight house 
where I can fondle their coins 
when I forget the price of things. 

Let your eloquent hand pronounce 
its claims pressed on your sturdy 
breast where that shy brown child 
tasted his worth. 

Come home with me, ample grandmother. 
Let the desert, where your dry winds 
seek out the pores like despair, 
be sealed out by the resilience 
of the black goat, as you spin through me, 
ever and ever, leaving me never 
the same.