As we sit beneath Cepheus and Cassiopeia, I think
of Arabian nights, smoke curling
out from between our lips like stories
told by Scheherezade to soothe the Sultan.
In the center of the circle your hookah pipe
looks out of place in it's grandeur, coiled hoses,
cobras that sway to the music, the hum
of conversation. Beneath the aroma of apple tobacco
is the scent of of burning cedar, lawn clippings, the ocean.
It smells like the west coast, not Saudi Arabia,
but when I close my eyes, the heat
from our fire feels like a warm breeze rolling in
off the desert and our mouths,
softer, more rounded, let loose a stream
of Arabic.
In the darkness, I imagine your toque is a tagiyah and you
are the Sultan, sitting straight and proud beside me, lean in
a little closer, whisper in your ear.
Let me wrap my words around you.
