Belly–dancing Friday & Saturday nights Ask about our cakes and pastries together on the hookah menu It feels illegal this fantastic peace–pipe imported from a distant land where — I imagine — it is the usual mouthpiece playing the timeless tune of friendship in some tent with cushions and languishing heat We talk of brownies as we inhale deeply blowing dragon’s breath from our nostrils attempting Gandalf rings We talk of communism and kibbutz as the silent flat–screen entrapped in its frame trails on pitching capitalism Abruptly comes the belly dancer sword balanced on head smirk balanced on lips a knowing corniness goes unheeded tables laugh giddy with defense It feels illegal this brazen display with its own language it speaks fluently That middle–aged Persian to whom I earlier beamed glares at her — all the women do — not enviously at beauty speaking its truth which all possess and most mostly murmur All part of the act dancer coaxes handsome man to mimic her poorly in happy embarrassment revealing the difference between babble and eloquence Then the young, curly-haired maiden stands and with so natural an expression on her face silently undulates a state of grace echoing phrases of child’s play the staff see her and she is suddenly attired in native spangles Everyone understands the dance now the entire table of Persians join them the Africans on the other side of us, too And me, I wax on about the bump and grind with a generous tutor A beautiful woman entreats to dance with the dancer and share in the speech O happy buzz, good–natured delirium The things we are saying this Saturnalia I am always hearing them Thank you, hookah, magic lamp, who cleans the substance’s impurities and turns smoke white for the young maiden’s sweet grace and a pleasant night