Anna

Anna the chair was overturned it’s after the end—whatever end—that we must readjust forgetting—paradise Anna sometimes has a taste of mouldy sun—when I think of the sun I want to think of Senac, of Amrouche, of Amrani—but when I think sun I want to think of the California sun, the one I’ve never seen—that mother-earth that nourishes you—and desire makes its place in what perhaps will happen, it doesn’t matter much if it happens—at the end paradise puts the chair back—I’m not saying the chair stands upright again—I’m not saying that it gets up—but isn’t there something that has to be put right and I think that it’s the idea of paradise itself that’s bothering me—in the Koran some remember especially the virgins offered to martyrs—there should be an end to such sacrifice, Anna—of course restore the virgins and the mothers—for the Marabout of Dakar, there was no point in going to Mecca because, he said, Mecca is your mother’s hip—honor your mother’s hip he said—he didn’t say strangle yourself with your umbilical cord—but your mother like Mecca is a promised land—you must go there only once—my mother’s land is a joyful cord—it’s a song in the bath—thawardets—the rose—my mother remembers the bath—all children are beautiful—and paradise, Anna, is a mother in whom you travel only once—a refrain that remains like a faraway pulse—we aren’t perfect, Anna—we aren’t imperfect either—