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I’m seeking you, Isbilia, my sultana, on the cloudy circle of water where I spread my glance to pierce your reflection, somewhere, between the foam and the wave, on the crest of imperceptible…
Arab Halva—moist, sticky, fibrous. The taste tears across my lips like a memory. Within me Jaffa stirs, wakens from sleep; eyes and faces of Jaffa.
I am there, it is afternoon, a city half-awake…