Magic appears in Tangiers:
mothers in fields weed sweet plants
for their children to chew;
atop white buildings geometric rugs
flap like yellow and blue patterned tongues;
sheep herds wobble on city sidewalks;
dark cherubs dart through the Casbah
chasing red balloons with twisted twigs;
postcards picture orange trees against
an azure sea; a marketplace crowded
with strolling, robed men, veiled women.
Nowhere do posters show laundry dangling
from windows, trash in ditches, unfinished
apartment buildings no one can afford;
on the real streets we see the beggar child kicked,
the skinned camel’s head lying on a table,
a man flicking us the finger as our bus passes,
inhale feverish breaths from street vendor vultures
pressing brass teapots against our folded arms.
A sense of disturbance prevails even
under the blue-striped feast tent as
bejeweled belly dancers roll their hips,
we mount a placid camel for our photo,
savor delicate sweets, sticky juice
dripping from our chins while a hot sun
warms our backs and macho warriors
in a fake battle gallop stallions
around an arena, aiming their guns at our heads.