with one whiff of its scent,
I’m carried back twenty-plus years
a roomful of semazens
all of us trained in the Turn
we are dressing for sacred time
honoring Rumi—the Dervish Sema— 
white tights, Turn shoes
supple black leather, soft soles
to slide on smooth wood

on with the white dress
its vast, full-circle tennure skirt 
just clearing the floor,
wrap the wide, black sash,
tuck in the ends, 
then don the vest,
before slipping on the hirka,
black cloak with sleeves
that graze the ground

we share candied ginger 
to ease vertigo of whirling, 
whirling, endless whirling, 
turning to God
and finally, rosewater
symbol of the Prophet
may peace be upon him
liberally sprinkled,
its heady scent the sign
we are about to begin—
silence pervades the space

we tug on wool sikke, 
ten-inch-tall hats, planting 
them firmly, with reverence
Dhikr—remembrance—now
on our breath, mixed with
infusion of roses, we make
the solemn walk to the Sema hall, 
remove our hirka, fold them, 
set them down and stand silent

ceremonial music begins
we bow to the postneshin
the Sheikh, the pole, 
requesting permission to turn— 
on his assent we unfold our wings,
releasing prayers
rose essence 
everywhere