Tethered to a yellow crane’s hook,
she is no longer swaying,
from the hood, across the sleeves,
down to the hemline
the breeze of dusk
flutters her black chador.
The speaker-laden city center
resounds verses from the Quran,
and as she hangs, hovering
like a black tissue ghost,
the outline of dried piss
can be traced around her crotch.
A four year old standing barefoot,
finger excavating a nostril,
tilts his head to his left shoulder,
mimicking her head posture.
A plastic soccer ball pelts him,
and two older boys holler: Get out of the way!
He makes a wry face with tongue out,
kicking the ball back with incoordination,
then skipping to the bakery next door.
