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.
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 honking Marrakech
and she might comb my hair.
Glossary:
Ghawli.† Ghawli, probably a dying word, is shouted, and only used that way, in the direction of someone wh...