Backgammon

I went there because it was quiet.

Not silent,
but quieter than my own house.
That was enough.

A narrow room.
A table set close to the wall.
Tea already poured
before I asked for it.

Bezhad sat across from me.
He did not hurry anything.
He opened the board
as if it mattered how it was done.

The pieces were worn.
The dice clicked in his hand
before he let them fall.

We played without speaking much.

Sometimes he would look up
and say something brief,
then return to the game
as if that were the main conversation.

Carol moved in and out of the room.
She did not interrupt.
She made the place hold.

There was a smell I remember.
Tea, maybe.
Something sweet.
It stayed in the air.

I don’t recall who won.

I remember the sound
of the dice on wood,
again and again,
as if chance were being measured.

Outside, it was another country.
Inside, it was not mine either.

Still, I stayed.

Years later
I hear their names
in a different context.

News, distance,
things I cannot change.

The room is gone.
Or changed beyond use.

But sometimes,
without warning,
I hear the dice again.

Not loud.
Just enough
to remind me

there was a place
where I was received
without explanation.

I did not belong there.

But for a while
that did not matter.