A recipe for lamb tagine



demands a mysterious



ingredient: raz el hanout.



Animal, vegetable, compound







of kings like myrrh? I decide



not to look it up, to wait and



see. At first it is everything



we seek but can’t express.







Then it reverses: everything



thrust upon us—think fast!—



by the universe, like the leg



my friend Tom caught when







a cyclist got clipped by a car,



the driver stinking drunk



at 9:00 AM. Severed above



the knee, the leg flung itself







into the air, a javelin. Tom,



always quick, reached up and



caught it. But the story has



a twist. After the cyclist died







in an ambulance, the widow



inexplicably came on to Tom.



Not that Tom is unattractive.



Indeed he is the sort of man







I’d throw myself at if I were



a leg. It’s hard to imagine



the sex that Tom and this



woman would have had







there in the hotel room



with the blackout curtains



pulled. I’ve never had sex



with Tom myself, but if I had







been that leg or that woman



I might have whispered,



“What fine reflexes you



have, Sir!” “Sir, say something







tender!” “Cradle me against



the guttural gasp from your



solar plexus.” “Oh, Sir, I



sense the tip of bone







on skin, a surge of déjà vu.”



“I am coming, I am about



to come, your shuddering



lover, your raz el hanout.”





