Raz el Hanout

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.”