On Edward Said
It’s been four years and a day.
I like the way you wrote about bellydancers,
Tahia Carioca, who couldn’t tell you how many men she’d married.
When you asked her,
She could only utter a shrill
And I love the way you wrote
about those who wrote badly about bellydancers,
Oriental feet and jingles
and finger cymbals.
Edward, I wanted to meet you, wanted to fete you,
to talk about lost houses and lost selves and bellydance
What else would we have talked about?
Read the poem in full here.