Free The Apprentice's Masterpiece by Melanie Little

morning my bowl is knocked over,
stopping a dream of a boot
to my head.
    An army has come to the quarter.
But this army is not one to fear—
except as a sign of times soon to be here.
    It’s merely a pageant of war—
an annual game of the Christians.
Young boys fierce as puppies skitter about.
The ones dressed as Muslims have tin scimitars
and beards scrawled on chins with burnt cork.
    Of course it’s the cross that carries the day.
The boys playing Christians thrust swords
at the sky, one foot on the backs of the
quick-vanquished Moors.
    It’s not always like that in life.
Remember the rout in the Axarquia?
We’re harder to conquer
than children at play.
(Children instructed to lose!)
    Last month, Ramon and I watched
as the army filed out of Cordoba,
off to fight the Muslims in the South.
There were twelve thousand men
riding on horses; behind them, on foot,
five times that.
    They clearly know that their task will be hard!

Friend
    This morning, the door closes just
as I turn round to look.
Missed him again.
Or, missed her.
Each night, I’ve tried to sit up
so I’ll see who it is.
But my head and my heart
are too heavy.
I sleep.
    I dream
of our Cordoban courtyard.
The soul-soothing shade
of its one lemon tree.
    Mama is there.
We trade stories about
our darkest hours.
Our finest ones too.
    When I wake here
on this patch of ground,
I can’t recall one single thing
that we said in my dream.
    But I feel refreshed.
And the cool morning air
seems to carry the scent
of a lemon tree.

Slaves
    There is a feast in the mosque’s small courtyard.
A cluster of African Muslims are honored guests.
They were captured by pirates and brought to Castile
for quick sale—in the very slave markets
I know too well.
    But the good Mudejares of Cordoba
have saved them. They have pooled
their resources to buy the men free.
    The African Muslims make speeches. Their words,
to me, sound more like Chinese
than Arabic. Are their accents strange?
Or has it just been so long
since I’ve heard my own tongue?
    I do catch some. They speak of the tactics
of Fernando’s army.
The Crown’s soldiers pillage and kill without mercy.
Not only that—they raze and destroy
the very land they would have for their own!
They burn fields, smash down dams.
Leave nothing alive.
    I lurk. My belly, amid these fine smells, does whirligigs.
When I think I can no longer stand it
I look at the ground.
A dish of meat stew steams by my knee.
Smells of cinnamon, garlic, and lamb.
And another scent too.
    Just what a beautiful dove
of a woman would wear.

Friend (2)
    This quarter has its own sheriff, a fat Mudejar
employed by the Queen.
    Still, later that night, it’s a Christian official
who comes to disperse us.
    Muslims are breaking the law of the land
if they meet for longer than pleases the Queen.
    So we go our own ways.
But when I get back
    to my square of earth,
a man is there. I can see
    that he’s waiting for me. I stop.
He holds out his hand.
    â€œDon’t be afraid, son,” he says.
“I’m a friend.”
A round, perfect egg
lies there in his palm.

Free
    I’m having a good laugh at myself.
Beautiful dove of a woman , indeed! It seems
I’m not so above Ramon after all—
concocting a lithe young protectress
instead of this solemn old bear of a man.
    Then I see her.
    Only her eyes are uncovered.
But their light shines brighter
than seven boatloads of yellow
Bea hair.
    â€œMy daughter says she has fed you,
my friend,” the man says. “For a week!
You are lucky my daughter is fond
of defying the rules of her parents.”
    Her eyes smile.
It’s too sweet to endure.
But that is not why
I must look away.
    It is as if I’m a small boy again, no more
than three. And I sit at a table with my
dear mother.
Time stands still, for a breath, in its glass.
    We are, both of us, in this instant, here.
And both of us free.

Free (2)
    It doesn’t take long—talk turns to