a chance of dust

When all alibis fail there is always

  that cloud of dust.  The bunch

 of cowboys tearing off into the hills

leave it in their wake, or the tattooed

 biker who leaves the curb at one hundred

 per hour,  a sting of plastic colors

 for this frustrated summer

flying in your face.  It sweeps in

   from a devastated landscape

       or  a bad dream, or

         a once read novel 

                             peopled

by folks  with gritty hair

and unsung stories.  Or maybe

floats in because just this once, the 

rain holds back.  Because the

winds you no longer expected

surprise you with a turn for

the worse.  It can in fact

happen to anyone.  Nothing to

be done.  So let´s just take life

as it is, at least for today. Come,

let's drink from these cups of water

or better yet, toast to  the hearty excuse: 

the clarity that just wasn´t 

 there, the foiled shots and the

  soiled lenses.  Why after all

not rejoice at enigma, that

forever blurred attempt to

capture what might come

next?

-   miriam adelman

From Assia Djebar, "Fantasia: an Algerian cavalcade".

"When I am growing up, shortly before my native land throws off the colonial yoke - while the man still has the right to four legitimate wives, we girls, big and little, have at our command four languages to express desire before all that is left to us is sighs and moans:  French for secret missives; Arabic for our stifled aspirations toward God-the-father, the God of the religions of the Book; Lybico-Berber which takes us back to the pagan idols - mother-gods - of pre-Islamic  Mecca.  The fourth language, for all females,  young or old, cloistered or half-emancipated, remains that of the body;  the body which male neighbors' and cousins' eyes require to be deaf and blind, since they cannot completely incarcerate it; the body which, in trances, dances or vociferations, in fits of hope or despair, rebels, and unable to read or write, seeks some unknown shore as destination for its message of love".

"

something broken

one day soon, here

between mountains and what is left

of sky, the pounding rain will

begin to still.  the light

refracting from a single drop

will seep   back in, past the ruins of

flood, and then comes the hour to return

to the pieces, to discover what part

of the fence has fallen, return some

mortar to the bridge,  notes from

a melody  trickling back in, so we can

roll up our  sleeves, get on with the task,

sweat to rebuild to the sound of a voice

that has lost its master.