Jinn

His turban, shirt reeked of fish,
fig-eyed, a crinkled, sun-ripened
face and gap-toothed smile,
he was an old, poor river man
presenting to the Wahhabi council.
Just yesterday his fishing nets
had snagged a jar, he said, sealed,
out of place in their bare hall,
its smoked glass sides silt-
encrusted, he swore bewitched.

It had been a long day
of beatings and beheadings;
global oil prices languished;
the dream of a new caliphate
swallowing deserts and skyscrapers
seemed very far. They stared
at his coarse hands. The jar, it’s said,
was never opened. But late
that night a council cleric told
his wife the tale. It was out.
 
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