In the depths of her muezzin-thrilled soul,
the wife of the bashful honorary consul
is articulate and tearful, her fairy tales
ending with an eclipse of the sun, a laughing
choir of gardeners, seamstresses, and maids,
cajoling her to command them from her bed
of imperial white. The orchestrated prayers
in the Safavid driveway were a prince’s joke,
in rich repeat. The laughter grew thinner,
more rare. As did the unemployed angels,
gathering plum-black stones under watchful eyes.