Calling the Jinn
Zorida Mohammed
I hear the words “Jinn, Jinn”
as I’m falling asleep.
I sneak out of bed
and creep behind the house in the dark.
I’m struck to find my father
standing by our lime tree
so laden with limes the branches
are reaching for the ground.
His white shirt glows green in the dark,
almost the color of the Jinn’s eyes.
Our biggest and bossiest rooster
is lying dead at his feet,
next to a bottle of rum.
My father calls “Jinn, Jinn.”
He calls two or three times, and steps back
to look at the sky.
I imagine the Jinn
the shape of a big black cape,
his only discernible feature
his glowing green eyes,
swooping in any minute.
My father’s name was Alladin.
Our lamp had no magic.
The Jinn never showed.
The Red Wheelbarrow Poets 