Is there an unseen hand
That guides me?

They find me
Wandering aimlessly
Through Morocco.

Soul mates,
She, the teacher,
Who is an artist,
He, the teacher,
Who is a doctor.
Each of us
Is something other
Than what we seem to be.

We eat basteeya,
Tajine with lamb and prunes.
We drink the sweet mint tea.

One night he listens.

In my tortured Spanish,
We have a conversation.
From him I learn the words,
Riñón ~ a kidney,
Transplantado ~ a transplant,
Neumonía ~ pneumonia,
Three words, a story,
A beginning,
A middle,
An end.

He looks into my eyes,
Says, “So, you are triste.”

Yes, I am triste.

At Volubilis,
The place
Where morning glories grow,
Quiet consolation,
She puts her arm around me,
Calls me ‘paña.
She knows that I am weary,
But we smile,
Walk along together.

Late at night
We drink more sweet mint tea.
I feel protected.
They touch my grief
With the laughter
Between them.

Relief.