A sandal of sun has scuffed the pale horizon,
kicked the pebble of moon
above the mountain slopes and the black goats, their hanging ears, wide ribs,
above crescents of mosque, cradling brimful a curve of sky.
Afternoon wanes like hope clutched too long, in too-tight fingers,
held ‘til it’s husk.
The ghost of love in the fist.
Ants swarm over broken bags of bread,
flies kiss the mouth of a dead kitten,
and the black mashed jaw of a dog aside a dumpster.
I dream of blood at night, rivulets
like the birds that fall in torrents from the cypress limbs.
There more funerals than weddings
in between the mountain flanks, in this green, maroon, and dust.
No promise that those eyes that saw the dawn
will watch the waxen moon.
—
Mary McColley is a writer and poet originally from Maine. She has wandered and worked for a number of years in France, Thailand, and Palestine, where she works as an English teacher. Her pastimes include killing lobsters and selling street art.
