by Lila Jackson

Red clay frames the charcoal figure on his step,
Covered in soot, nails and face black with grime.
Cough, and a puff drawn of what’s left of his cigarette.
A pause from stoking the hammam, At a glance, only humanoid.

Narrow streets crowd with signs of struggle,
suffocating tendrils of leathery smoke,
smell of stagnant meat, flies feasting.
Denied a slither of horizon the world is dim.

Piercing eyes through a slit of remaining freedom,
She cradles her baby’s wail,
hoping the cries will pierce my privilege,
and release a dirham.

Mesmerised by the chaos,
eyes locked briefly with a prisoner of patriarchy,
Caught in the interminable disease,
I know only the surface of her struggles. Another human’s truth.

Yet in the riad, I enter the portal
White tablecloths, green foliage,
All discomfort artfully eliminated.
Endless trickling fountain of privilege
washes away memory of hardship outside.

We scroll past their discomfort.
We come and we pass,
Fleeting reality, fleeting recognition
A momentary step from my haven.

Luggage jostles in the overhead cabin.
But the frail wood-man still sits on his step. Still stokes his fire.
Her baby still cries. She cradles. She begs.
Their pleas still echo. Still unheard.