Turquoise, from the mines of Sinai, many say
keeps the evil
at bay.
When she found out
up on the doorpost, it went
claiming I will watch over you
from the illusion of safety
you believe a passport sends.
Though my thirty-three beads rest in my left
sleeve like the mefkhat
stone set into King Tutankhamun bust
we trust
cordons off the eyes of evil in three sets of eleven.
Of the world
and maybe it does
but turquoise
would explain
certain dreams
of Cyrus my Shepherd by Daniel.
Who does not love blue-green
turquoise the most?
To gaze at it
is to become a drop of rain
falling
into your bottomless pool.
When she looks in the mirror
and see not herself
but the final river at the Hot Gates he eluded.
The orange moon refuses to set
and she forgets my face and hers
and lies in the sand of Varadaro and the alleys of Chefchouen
with everyone about memories
carrying gold and potions in a sack.
Its ocean glow is warm in my left hand, locked in gold,
filled with the sand of your ear pressed to grains
listening for further instructions.
Who does not love blue-green
turquoise the most? On your ears.
©Philippe du Col, 2025. ©​ 2025 Duchess of Orange