COUNTING THE CONTRABAND
Camels and cobras alike, the horizon is never
easy. We carried so many things from Algiers
that it gave me a headache just recounting. Those
filigreed boxes, inlaid with gold, and the satchels
filled with (we were told to say) 'oranges'. Two
boys, without fingers, who were kept as slaves
and had to drag the bushels on ropes. We tied
the broad leather bands around their waists,
and each iron hoop on them was connected
by rope to one of the bushels. Slow going, but
a going nonetheless. For them, and for us.
-
The yellow sun blistered my face before long,
and I was wishing for a mountainside in
Pennsylvania once more. Not to be. For me,
all this painful abduction was an adventure
more real than perception. Everything hurt,
but they said we'd be rich. Or dead. One way
or the other, something to report back home.
-
I was born on a hardwood board, something that
held my mother and some crazy local mountain
nurse who raised nine kids on the side. Together,
they managed my birth, and they said I came
out strong - like a blood-addled demon ready to
strike. It's always been like that ever since. My
name was Brian, but they called me Fire.
-
I got into this mess by missing a bet. Or I nodded
when I should have looked down, or something
like that. I could have been killed with a six-inch
knife, they said, or go on this journey and live.
Yes, yes, I chose this great and random bet.
And here I am, alive still, and yet...
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