Land behind Baghdad - poems from an Iraqi girlhood by Camille Roy (*)

I get a satisfaction from doing this. Most of the time


it seems windy. Some days dust hangs in the air like

orange fog which I want to rip apart. I stuff cotton into my


mouth, so I can breathe. My bed sags like a hammock. In my

room a nylon filament hisses & gives light. I'm gloomy


until Marguerite and her husband join the expedition. French

Canadian, she mystifies me because of her small bones which


seem soft. The hems on her dresses hang like pure cotton.

Engaged in following or waiting for her husband


she walks calmly through our courtyards. She is

bilingual. I follow her, I want to reach into her mouth


for that candy. In all those months I remember only one word

a bead to break my teeth on. I know the Arabic for eggplant.


 found at  Camille Roy's Website