Unpublished Newswire

for Houcien The vibrant souks of the Medina may sink into my skull like an old knife. If I die, my soul will roam this continent with pleasure, along its fine shorelines, garden of cactuses, and fumes of desert rising above the Sahara where Imazighen men feast on sand soup and camel meat. In America, my body is made of mint tea, before the first caffeine devotion. I have no more gambit stories about my next move. Exile is a broken thread of salty water joined in part by WhatsApp stories where my mother whispers tasa nu and asks what I am having for dinner. I will return to you, Marrakech...