two dogs

two elderly women

perhaps sisters

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.

Ha! Ha!

they call out to me

smiling.

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

but embarrassment.


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

and so

I turn my head.


© Christy Frisken


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