I didn't think of loving you until I saw
you in a white shirt at a church concert, a Christmas concert where we were both ushers. It began, the concert, in darkness. Then candles entered, carried by men in robes--hooded silhouettes, chanting, and singing.
When the music ended (the space of two hours collapsed
to three or four words), everyone
was talking, laughing, putting on their coats, and you and I walked up to the Virgin
of Guadalupe, standing to left of the altar--her gold-leaf nimbus shining,
buckets of flowers around her feet. Roses and lilies for the most part, also
a few chrysanthemums. We looked at the flowers, at her anguished, patient face, and you told me
in Mexico her skin is darker, violence and passion
are closer--more blood, more faith. That night we said goodbye in the cold.
Days later, I arrived in Egypt--a place with high-rises growing out of sand,
freeway construction disturbing cemeteries. I did not fit in with the other Americans--putting my scarf over my head, pretending, quietly, I spoke French. One morning, I woke up as our boat passed through
the Aswan locks. After dressing by feel in the dark cabin, I went out to the deck, saw workers looking down from the catwalk crossing the dam--they whistled and pointed--but I turned
east to see the sun rising out of the river, over
a green valley and pale mountains--a familiar light on a stranger's face.
