Caravan

by Marina Lee Sable

I. The Ruins of Loulan

We came from Dunhuang, the City of Sands
and grottos, en route to the Pamirs.
A motley camp of nomads, gers, horses,
silk and spice carts, camels strung
on a necklace of rope, and the dog chasing
the Head of the Pot as he gathers his pots.

Within the moonlit walls and silvery buildings
of the City of Loulan is a diminished oasis
eroding to gray ruin in the cold shock of dawn
balanced on the flip of a coin I find in tumbled stones.
The camels rise, complaining of grease-smeared
sores and heavy loads, bells clanging across
a scorch of withered grasses, tamarisk,
and skeletal trees that nod like sentinels in collusion.

In the distance, the ruins of Loulan
dissolve in the blue mirage of oblivion.

II. The Desert of Lop

The sun melts the sand into a glittering lake of silver—
a metal sea of hammered waves—and Mondrian’s
Red Tree, over and over, against a blue sky
of ravens encircling a beacon of bones—
the drying husks of frozen men.
Each open mouth, an unsprung scream.
Plucked eyes, eclipsed moons orbiting a darker planet.

The horizon brims with the fiery energy
of ancient rites and Dervish silhouettes
of dust devils — a ballroom of dancers
swirling to a desert orchestra of distant drums,
cymbals, a clanging harp, and something else hissing.

At sunset, the lake and trees resolve into a wilderness
of ashen sand and stumps of camel-thorn,
the dull plod, the gray attenuated blur.

This is the landscape of the mind –desolate and wild.

III. Nighttime in the Desert

A ghostly energy ignites the sky. Magnetic lights
of diamonds fall from the heavens and settle
like beacons on the horizon before winking out.

Then everything stiffens, holding me in moonless scrims.
Someone beckons as they disappear over a ridge,
their hand a luminous flow of silk in darkness.

I hear the tramp and chink of people as I hurry up the rise,
but there is only silence and darkness on the other side.

My feet tread deeper, sinking into the shifting sands,
now a pulse of whispering waves ferrying black shades
from the phantom caravan to shore.

Unplugging feet from tight sockets, I frantically retrace
my steps. The murmuring shadows vanish in a zigzag
of ruts—a vision of camels and carts madly driven, suicidal.

I see lights from my caravan, stopped and waiting for me.

The scythe moon, unleashed from its nebulous mooring,
drifts on into the night.

The dog is missing.

IV. Caravanserai

Behind us, the air is blackening like a swarm of souls
in pursuit as we reach the gate of Cerberus nestled
like an ancient omen in the stone wall of a serai.
Inside, gray dust, dead trees, a dried-up well.

Desert sounds diminish, everything in stasis, waiting.
Fire smoke drifts up in darkening tendrils,
a shadow play on the walls of the dolorous shelter.

In the open court, the camels shriek and shiver
and grind their teeth. The horses jostle
among themselves. Outside, the crackle
and rustle of something at the gate.

Somewhere between paralysis and death
we wait for the shattering.

I conjure ancient spirits hidden
in the unknown elements of darkness,
make pacts with anything that will listen.

Then the detonation of sands, the bang of the gate
flying from its hinges and disappearing
in the thunderous roar of a demon army,
a cavernous mouth open wide. Stars snuffed out,
blackness, and, suddenly, desert voices singing.

Marina Lee Sable’s poems have appeared or are forthcoming in The Pedestal Magazine, Dreams of Decadence, Paper Crow, OG’s Speculative Fiction, Cover of Darkness, Illumen, Shelter of Dayling, C0yote Wild,and Strong Verse.