Moira Duff
Two women
You nearly disappeared in the clothes you wore -
against the settee where you curled -
they’re your religion but also the cold
keeps you wrapped in your dyes and prints. Our
races are different. I am not sure
just what you do believe. And the pattern
of your cushions - perhaps it’s not on
to ask, but are they tribal? They’ve a woodcut air
of untamed undergrowth. Did you say Omdurman
has no trees? We’ve plenty here. Your home
off the road keeps out prying eyes. And daily
prayers are not disturbed. The holy
call is silent as your mosque has no minaret.
Graffiti is on the door. An old bank. You still go barefoot.
Page(s) 135
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