MOPPING UP THE JANISSARIES
To hear this poem read aloud with commentary by the author,
When three Mamluks and their hoard
of pampered sons walk
into a bar, it becomes a franchise
we’ve never heard of. They buy
up the place, enslave the bartender
in hopes that he may one day be Sultan.
When their fathers aren’t looking, the sons
order rounds of khamr, bankrupt
the joint, stumble out and try to remember
which way is home. The fathers, apologizing,
shunning the behavior of their awlad al-nas,
give the bartender his first spear
just as Western fathers present a son
to the mirror
after his first shave. Their eyes grow wet.
They proclaim the bartender will lead
the Islamic Golden Age, he will conquer
the Levant and all
the horizon touches, initiating
new converts such as himself.
In their pride, the Mamluks forget to give him a nisba.
They lead him home. He becomes a palace
ghulam without a name, sweeping
corners and wiping blood from sword blades
onto the shoulders of horses. He only ever sees war
in their smoothed-down clotted coats.
He remembers the az-zaġāyah
given to him like an heirloom watch.
If they keep this up,
he thinks they’ll run out of slaves.
He can already see them thinning.
Only a ghulam will remain.
In the parking lot, one of the sons vomits.
He sees golden cupolas
in the sick
and prays.
