When they first put me in this tower, sometime early in the twelfth century,
I was what everyone expected of a Saracen princess. Yielding, obedient, characterless …Soft as a mollusc, in fact.
The sea that lapped around my tower was full of red weeds, wine-dark;
And I should have been dark too. The poets extolled the whiteness of my skin
In language so flowery
It was clear they needed room to equivocate.
When Charlemagne’s knights came, clashing their lances under my father’s ramparts,
I ignored them. There was a garden on the tower roof.
With time on my hands, I became a healer, gathering flowers in the early morning
Before the sun burnt off the dew from the petals. Drops
Ran down my arms and chilled my skin.
As the centuries wore on, more stories accreted around me,
(like nacre around grit, or rings on a snail shell)
That I kept poisons, circled my waist with magic, kept Christian relics in my Muslim bed.
I hardened myself to them.
When the Christians came, offering rescue, conversion, the most romantic of marriages,
I barred the door. For my tower
Had become a fortress.