The heat is second-hand, burns back from stone.
Arcades dark as skulls’ eyes.
Too hot to hold your hand,
besides, why risk it here?
We tread across the square to find a cafe
pick our way through a tangle of wrought iron chairs –
I hold them back like brambles for you to pass
trying courtesy.
We sit, the only women, our flesh heavy.
Pigeons strut around old canon balls
palm tree shadows waver, uncertain camouflage.
Midday.
A toddler chases a pigeon that can hardly be bothered.
Shriek, flurry, and stop. Shriek, flurry, and stop.
Swift groups of men finger small packages
as a policeman watches in a corner
his braids white.
The cafe table is scarred
and you’re crying because the tortilla is a cold slab
left over from last night.