I'm late for class. I take a trolley but the old driver takes us
to a strange place by the beach. The sea and sky merge in clear
aquamarine. We watch a fisherman throw nets at a distance. 
A boat ride would be lovely.

A girl in a flowered dress bends over a net of algae. I know her
but can't remember her name. She went to school with me in Cairo. 
Tiny blue crabs crawl on the sand. On the rocky reefs, purple sea 
urchins are nested. My Nonna loved to eat them in Alexandria, 
ricci, ricci, she'd say with a smile.

We come across a stand. Smoke rises from ears of corn roasting
over coals. Oil, lemon, herbs, drizzle over tender flesh. It is getting
dark. Blue sparks electrify the dense air. I love the crab's orange 
heart. It tastes just like in Rass el Bar, that little island where the Nile
blends with the Mediterranean. Vendors carried them in baskets, 
chanting kabouria! kabouria!

It is time for cocktails. People gather around a buffet erected
at the foot of the cliff. They keep coming out of a transparent
elevator sliding in midst of the quartz sandstone. I think of a 
fisherman's net rising with its catch. It could be our only way out. 
It stops midway, a door opens to a conference room. 

I see an old date from Beirut: an ophthalmologist with black 
curly hair, still handsome. How does he manage to keep his hair
so black, so curly after forty years?  I realize it is past nine. 
How did I ever think I'd make it back in time for class?

(1954-1962)

You used to say, mother:    
“Let me see your face when lit 
by a crescent moon: 
every day of the month               
will smile the way you do.”

We saw double-feature movies 
in open-air theatres. 
The cool breeze ran through our hair,
over our necks, lifted our skirts,
swayed us in a magical carpet.

Tempted by vendors chanting 
Greek cheese and sesame breads, 
we often stayed, sipping icy lemon 
granitas through replays, the lift 
and pause of cascading light. 

Characters entered our own 
camera obscura.
We never agreed on their age: 
you added a few years,
I wanted them closer to mine.

I remember a recurrent scene, 
fading now into a sepia cameo,   
where a woman--always the same
yet different--slaps a man
before falling in his arms.

I watched your face then, 
as stars outlined the sky,
the  slight opening of the lips,
the Gioconda’s elegant smile 
you allowed yourself, 
befitting the sfumato of the late hours.

Arm in arm, we walked home, 
following the trail of the moon.