between The Atlas Mountains and Lagos [2010]

dust is everywhere 
           and in everything 

           the road has ended
where the carrion dries in the sun

sand dead cars are strewn across this desert
                      like stripped skeletons
and we are being cooked     like they were
                      to the Tropic of Cancer     
slowly     at 150 degrees Fahrenheit

we push forward     (passports seized)
           into a blinding
                                 stinging whirl

the driver says something inaudible
    as the dashboard suddenly lights 
    our wind-scarred faces

                                     simultaneously
                                     Nigel empties his canteen
                                     foolishly (the last canteen)
                                     into his cat's parched mouth

                      for a moment
                      we are all together
                      like the garden dancers in Ikoye
                                                                   and then

the Range Rover chokes    
                                  and is seized
and as the tattered tires crunch to a stop
           veiled Tuaregs rise like shifting dune ghosts 
           with AK-47s and sweating skins of water
           at a camel-back distance

Tamanrasset now seems a crystalized limestone eternity
                                  away     if a kilometer
                                  and as night begins to envelop us
                                  wild dogs are at the perimeter…

❊     ❊     ❊     ❊     ❊

Dearest Holly,

The Barbary macaques are so tame here at the foot of the Aures, that they will eat the breakfast pears gently from our hands.  Our friend Basem tells us that they descend the mountain every morning to feast and sing with him, as he tunes his oud for the day's services.  It will be sad to leave here tomorrow, but the adventure of the Sahara, and the call to meet Fela in Calabar, are  appealing beyond this paradise.  If I were to admit to a regret about this trip, it would be the fact that I didn't bother to learn any French.  This has caused a real hassle for Andre, as the local gendarmes have been asking a great deal of questions.  Oh well.  You should be looking for a package from me soon.  I've mailed an authentic talking drum (with a goat-skin head!) and you should receive it by the 24th.  Don't let the kids be too rough when they open it.  Also, when I get home, don't let me forget to read to you the new poem on which I've been working.  Anyway, tell your mother I said hello, and give my sister a kiss beneath the mistletoe. (ha ha ha)  Let everyone know I should be back in time to celebrate the new year.  I love you, and I wish you were here.

Eternally devoted,
Simon

P.S. - They actually have snow here, at the mountain summit.  I guess I don't feel so far away from home after all.