Leaving, I remember.
The hay of a midsummer noon
surrounded by the cicada– the sound of the sun
In the centre,
two children sit on a rug like a woman’s face,
taking turns combing each other’s hair.
In the centre,
two children sit on a rug like a woman’s face,
taking turns combing each other’s hair.
The two elders of the house
wobbled on their donkeys
somewhere farther afield.
They circled back that day.
Today, though, only my cousin awaits in Marrakech
and she might comb my hair.
[Note:1]