Of how, when tea was done, and everyone had stood,He reached for my head, put his hands over it,And gently pulled me to his chest, which smelledOf dung smoke and cinnamon and mutton grease.I could hear his wheezy breathing now, like the prophet's Last whispered word repeated by the faithful.Then he prayed for what no one had time to translate--His son interrupted the old man to tell him a groupOf snake charmers sought his blessing, and a blind thief.The saint pushed me away, took one long look,Then straightened my collar and nodded me toward the door.
When tea was done, he put his hands on me.