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Brother, do you need hashish?

I thought it was a joke

and I smiled.

They were not joking.

One of the guys held my hand.

He had a band-aid on his forehead,

probably knocked himself out

on some smoke trip.

“Come on, brother.”

Inside the Marrakesh alley street,

the other guys signalled me

toward a doorway

leading to another street.

Laughing.

“Come inside.

Just 50 dirham per gram.”

I was reluctant.

Didn’t want to go inside.

“I have to go.”

Fear sat plainly on my face,

while I tried to soften it

with a borrowed smile,

trying not to be rude.

He still held my hand

and tried to assure me:

“Brother, this is Morocco.

Unlike Spain, Italy, other European countries…

we don’t steal from anyone.

All safe for you.”

I pulled myself free

from his soft clutches,

like escaping a grizzly bear

pretending to be

the same teddy bear,

just larger now.

Not knowing

whether it wanted kindness

or dinner.

Safe somewhere else,

I took a long breath

and thanked God

for letting me leave

in one piece.