two elderly women
wave at me from the blanket
upon which they sit.
smiling in unison,
their eyes clouded by cataracts.
a group of women in the square
sell dried grains and lentils.
they call out to me
this is what I've been missing:
the company of women.
the stone paths vibrate
with the rolling, drumming sound
of hundreds of pigeons' wings
whirring as they fly past my head.
there two dogs mating in the square
which are to be avoided,
there is something about mating animals
I'm not keen to witness,
not out of a sense of prudishness
I keep the dogs on the periphery of my vision,
out of direct view,
and a scene from my childhood
rewinds itself -
a memory demanding to be replayed -
being called away from spying on lying dogs.
apologies for the sexuality of living beings
draw for a child
a map of shame.
I can avoid watching the dogs, but
my eyes will not be averted
from the small group of laughing children.
they point their stumpy fingers at the dogs,
full of mirth.
but I am in the adult world now,
where animals have lost their unusualness
I turn my head.
© Christy Frisken