In The Kasbah

they eat sliced oranges
bright with sugar.

He pours mint tea from a height,
loves the drama.                     

She’s in his darkness. 
A purple shadow makes a thumb print,
a smudge, a small mistake.

It’s a squall of white that captures her attention,
alters something,

like the promise of a covenant.
She could speak
or take the lemons from this scrubbed table,

but she doesn’t want to disturb
the arrangement.         


First published in Crannóg, 2016

Maria Isakova