Crab Orchard Review Vol. 12, No. 2, our

Rite
Sana’a, Yemen
From the grand diwan of Al-Ahmar
where women beat tambourines
and ululate with mouths I’ll never see,
you float down the dark stairs,
filling the corridor with layer
upon layer of veil, an apparition
moving toward me without word
or touch. Sheikh Abdullah’s Land Cruiser
will whisk us along the belt
of streetlights around this city,
in whose heart I pulse, in whose mouth
my tongue has learned a new language.
Our convoy of cars honks
with the promise of migrating geese.
In the seats behind us, the shadows
of your best friends and their daughters
hold whispered conversations.
Tonight, I know you less than ever.
But in the crevice between us, our hands
have found one another. We will learn
that love means what we have begun.
66 ◆ Crab Orchard Review
Yahya Frederickson