Folds upon folds of coppery skin gather around the Bedouin’s midriff. Stringy waist-length gray hair moves gently across her sunken shoulders and humped back as she guides me farther into damp shadows. The soles of her feet are heavily calloused and covered with deep lengthwise cracks, revealing their own desert landscape.

Small torches tucked in wall crevices provide a soft amber glow. Heavy moist air caresses my nakedness as I follow the Bedouin woman, my feet padding quietly behind her on the hard-packed surface. We move in dark silence. She guides me a bit deeper underground and into a low-ceilinged space. Standing in the opaqueness are two naked females, both middle-aged and bent forward. They motion to me. Colored neck beads swing gracefully between their once-ample breasts, and each of them displays a similar toothy grin. Each takes one of my hands and leads me to a low, sway-backed stone bench.

Plunging their sinewy forearms into low troughs of sand mixed with steaming water, they gleefully draw out handfuls of warm, gritty mud and gradually apply it all over my body. Arms and fingers, legs and feet, torso and back, even my dirty neck, face, and hair are caked with the grainy mess.

Then a scratchy, scraping sensation. Grasping pieces of coarse burlap, the women diligently scrub lengthwise along my lean body. The pressure of their sweeping motions is so intense that I look to see if my skin is bleeding; but there is only new, pink skin peeking out through the wet, brown patches. Every inch of my body is scoured and raked. The women pull and stretch the coarse material over me repeatedly. Masters in the art of cleansing.

Bursts of laughter and unfamiliar Arabic phrases float in the scantily lit space as they work over the young American. It is easy to lose track of time in this humid, below-desert oasis. It feels as though hours have passed before their raspy torture is complete. After guiding me to yet another damp passageway and a second small bench, the scrubbers retreat. This corridor is lined, waist-high, with blue-and-white patterned ceramic tiles that, during my weekend sight-seeing travels here, have become familiar to me.

Suddenly, several naked girls appear, each one bearing a heavy earthen jug. Two balance them on their slender hips and the other three hold them shoulder high. On command, the girls swiftly douse me. Startled, I scream—the water is icy cold! The girls giggle and dance around before scampering off into murky darkness.

My teeth chatter uncontrollably. Shivering, I teeter on the stone seat. I’m surprised by the light touch of a warm hand on my shoulder. I turn to see another Bedouin woman. She has a kind face. Helping me to my feet, she guides me back through the maze of dark passageways to retrieve my garments and sandals. When I am ready, she steers me into a narrow walkway. The passageway weaves this way and that, and we are subtly climbing.

As we ascend, we move from the moist, dank atmosphere into warmer and drier air. The kindly woman pauses in front of an ancient wooden door, nods, and then withdraws. The hinges moan as I push the heavy door open. Fierce sunlight streams onto my face, and I blink at the brightness.

The beautiful Sahara lies before me under a blazing, oven-hot sun. My long patch skirt sways in the warm breeze, ruffling over my toes. I feel pristine, cleaner than fresh-fallen snow. I pause to savor the moment, wanting this fairy-tale sensation to last.

Reluctantly, I step out onto the desert sand stretching before me. Something stings my right shoulder. Before I can turn, a small rough stone catches me just behind the right ear. Droplets of ruby-red blood seep into the ochre sand below. Faint yelps skip in the air. I’m the victim of a group of boys who’d badgered me on the way here and are now running off. My two female students had warned me this might happen once I was past the cliff dwellings. All I can do is trek back to my adobe.

Within a half mile, the sky darkens eerily and the air grows heavy. Turbulent winds claw at the desert floor. The Sahara is famous for its ferocious, irreverent sandstorms. Pulling at my head scarf to cover my nose and mouth, I push through the wind gusts and finally arrive safely home.

Old Stranger: Poems

by Joan Larkin

Poem after poem, Old Stranger unearths moments that shape a woman's life. The poet's eye is unflinching as she sees the past folded into the present. Her body is the ground of deep soul hunger. Her language is music.

“To discover the ‘old stranger’ is a knife, not quite, it’s an old piano. No, it’s a book about mortality and the debt of flesh, about love, rot, relationship, smiles that cut like knives through every seeing moment. It’s about painting. It’s a beaut. There’s so much masterpiece here. I mean, wow, this is why one is a poet all their life. To make this.” — Eileen Myles, author of a "Working Life"   “Joan Larkin’s much-awaited Old Stranger: Poems is a miracle of compression, mystery, and innuendo. Here is a poet for whom craft is an extension of wisdom. Whether revealing the archetype secreted within an object, or the elemental, persistent grief within a memory, Larkin expertly hones the edges of poems like a luthier shapes a violin.” — Diane Seuss, author of Modern Poetry   "Engaging with curiosity and often startled affection, this poet tells of how it feels to be both enamored and shaken with what connections reveal. Quiet and absorbed, one reads this most graceful of books until pow and one is alerted!" — Jody Stewart, author of This Momentary World: Selected Poems and Guest Editor, Poets of the Eastern States (Persimmon Tree, Winter 2024)

    More about Joan Larkin: www.alicejamesbooks.org/bookstore/old-stranger Available from Alice James Books, Bookshop, and Amazon.

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