Hunger

She approached him with her hand out, “May you have blessings and prosperity.”

“May God make it easy for you,” he said in Arabic. “I will leave food for you. Wait.”

She walked across the street into shadows watching through slit fabric. Her eyes were the world. He watched her watch people eating. She watched him watch her. Their eyes were married. She was calm and silent. Wild cats roamed malnourished skeletons around eaters’ feet and stayed away from a waiter’s swift shoe. She watched and waited.

He fed abstract scraps to cats. They fought in dust hissing and dragging bones to shelter. The city overflowed with dead dying cats and caravan dust as salt, gold, and slaves traveled across the Sahara.

Everyone choked on historical dust at a personal Ground 0.

Nemesis adjusted her perspective.

Feeding cats became a ritual in Morocco for him. He had a passion for hungry animals. They were all in the same fix, roaming, lost, looking, and trying to survive in desperate circumstances.

He didn’t eat everything. Knowing the waiter had to figure charges he left the table and she closed in. Her blackness swooped like a dream across pavement. They were a team. She was free to collect everything. She produced a plastic bag from her black cloak, picked up the plate and dumped everything inside: bones, meat, rice, and tomatoes. The works.

She was fast and efficient. She glided away to shadows.

He paid, left, and walked past her. They locked eyes. He was naked. She was covered in her belief. Her invisible clear eyes flashed a brief recognition. He nodded. She smiled under her veil. Their relationship of mutual respect ignored verbal language.

A Century Is Nothing

Subject To Change

2 poems

April is Poetry Month. Moth. Mouth. 

Here's two for you.

III
Spring is like a perhaps hand
(which comes carefully
out of Nowhere) arranging
a window, into which people look (while
people stare
arranging and changing placing
carefully there a strange
thing and a known thing here) and

changing everything carefully

spring is like a perhaps
Hand in a window
(carefully to
and fro moving New and
Old things, while
people stare carefully
moving a perhaps
fraction of flower here placing
an inch of air there) and

without breaking anything.
 - E. E. Cummings  Read more…

"Every year a given tree creates absolutely from scratch ninety-nine percent of its living parts. Water lifting up tree trunks can climb one hundred and fifty feet an hour; in full summer a tree can, and does, heave a ton of water every day. A big elm in a single season might make as many as six million leaves, wholly intricate, without budging an inch; I couldn't make one. A tree stands there, accumulating deadwood, mute and rigid as an obelisk, but secretly it seethes, it splits, sucks and stretches; it heaves up tons and hurls them out in a green, fringed fling. No person taps this free power; the dynamo in the tulip tree pumps out even more tulip tree, and it runs on rain and air."
 - Annie Dillard  Read more…