the incense gatherers

in Salalah your sisters spread my jeans
and t-shirt on a wicker rack
with knobs of frankincense smoldering
on coals underneath

so I emanate frankincense
as we ride out from the ruins
at Sumharam to the territory
of the Bait Kathir who are
the incense gatherers of Dhofar

on stony high ground one burning
afternoon we find wiry trees scattered
across the white plateau
some growing
out of solid rock

gnarled and tranquil they resemble
olive or juniper and bear lightly
the weight of legend
of merchant magi and messiah

which you describe to me
quoting Ibn Battuta
and Avicenna with your voice
like the smell of frankincense
which is balsamic spicy
and slightly lemon

the Bait Kathir gatherers shave
strips of bark from the trunk
with square minqaf knives

the white resin they call luban
oozes out and hardens
into crystals which they scrape
off and collect in palm baskets

that your sisters may burn it on coals
to make white smoke
beneath my clothes

that I may emanate frankincense
riding with you from the ruins of Sumharam
to the hills above Salalah tending secretly
the burning coal
of my heart