Racing the Jinn

Lost. This is always the word that comes to mind first
as you snake your way down the twists and turns
of the souk, the bright blue walls towering around you,
almost tall enough to block out the sun.
Only the very tip of the minaret visible
above it all, piercing the cloudless sky.

All calls have gone out for the day, though,
and no prayer can help you on your way
here, or now, not with what you need to find,
not with why you've lost it in the first place.
Bodies bump into you, and the crowd's panic
threatens to steal your focus, your sense of direction,

but you know your way. You know to turn right
at the spice cellar, know that if you hit Sanaa’s stall,
the one colorful with rugs and sweet with dates,
you’ve gone too far. No, it’s that something is lost.
Missing. Everyone here is madly scrambling for
something. Need and desire mingle with the heat.

You can't help but feel that hunger, share that
greed, with everything anyone could possibly want
within an arm's reach, but need and desire
are what dropped you into this labyrinth,
and you have no choice, no time at all,
to fall prey to that seduction again,

each seller loudly declaring that their wares
are the best, their lamps, bright orbs of coloured glass
and fractured light, truly are special, no matter
how much they look like the one next door.
There is a certain comfort in it all, in the pageantry,
in the knowledge that everyone is lying, and that you can, too.

But only if you know exactly where to go, and keep
your eyes peeled for the one shelf you're scrambling toward,
the one jar shining with the stolen, silver soul of your love.
You know it's here somewhere, that you have to find it
before the sliver moon rises over this place. It's the only way
to bring her back from dead. This is the Jinn's challenge.