Monday, July 16, 2007

Sunday, Monday

Flower without colours, by Gittevis at

She enters the cafe, stilling conversation

with hurt, wide eyes. The women give

shoulders and a space in which she can be heard,

while the men offer tea with gentle hands, and retreat

a safe distance to smoke, outside,

until the storm has passed.

The next day, I watch these men at their work,

relocating fish to the cafe. They are

strong arms, moving in a silence only broken

by instruction, question and command. I am

on the edges now, barely helping,

and lost without my women's chatter.

As I wait and watch them working, I wonder

if these men felt redundant in the face

of tears, as I do now, watching them

pour water into the old glass tank.

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