Free Write - Week 3

A Moroccan Fantasy

 We stare at a map of Morocco and laugh

about racing camels bareback across the sand.
(Are two-humped camels better than one?)

Don’t forget in our haste to board the plane, that although I love nomads,

I dislike standing in a caravan of shoeless travelers. (Very well. Private jet then?)

It’s decided that Royal Air Maroc will deliver us safely.

But if we never come back, our families may hire our doppelgangers.

(I don’t mind if they take over my whole life. Do you?)

(No, I don’t care. Let them be Lancelot for a while.)

In Morocco, our days will, as a general rule, start with honeyed gazelle’s horns

and end with green tea minted in our eyes. 

There’s the promise of dancing to the beat of a street vendor’s drums as soon as we land.

(Darling, why are you wearing that silly fez? Oh, and let’s buy our own drum!)

You agree but not before we go to dinner.

(Let’s practice singing for our couscous and zaalouk.)

Those damn crazy Brits. Or are we Americans?

Maybe a pair of Canada's geese who hopped on the wrong plane?

(Are we migrating to Morocco?) Maybe.

Whoever we are, we’ll have to choose our accents carefully

if we’re going to barter with the seller who only accepts conundrums as payment.

Success means we can whirl with the dervishes (Something I’ve always wanted to do!)

To the dismay of the origami selves we left behind,

we’ll spin their scribbled warnings until all our creases come undone.

Then, flattened and breathless, you and I, beneath the emerging Moroccan pearl

will entertain the idea of becoming Bedouins. (Do you think they will adopt us?)

(Maybe we can train their camels to spit into the eye of an oasis.)

In the heat of the moment, our debate crystalizes.

Morocco in June reminds you that the next place we are moored should be colder.

(After all this fun, how can we possibly leave Morocco?)

It’s time to book passage on the ferry. (Are you sure?)

There’s your waving eyebrows and my elephant wink. (Alright, let’s leave Morocco)

Drifting through the Straits of Gibraltar, Portugal appears on the horizon of my finger tip.

(Morocco, here’s looking at you kid.)

We’ll set sail with the wind in our hair and the sea at our feet,

(We’re after the same rainbow's end, Huckleberry!)
I take your hand and smile.