"Would you write for me your name and scent it
with the Mediterranean flavour
of your steaming Chorba soup?" I asked at last.
She dropped the basket of bread, the bottle
of pink wine headed for the far table,
picked the pen and flourished in neat caps: nawel.
Her hand and her grace were one, each letter
distinct but in perfect rhythm with the rest,
save the "e" whose second and last teeth
were but soft lips curved by a smile from
the spine. I praised her in my trembling French,
her beauty safe beyond abject adjectives.
nawel: a name and shape to trace on sand
A face to sparkle the glass in your hand.