The Old Horse in Tangier

someplace he calls to me

listen while reading: Konna Netlaka

the steed with the fiery eye drawing me to the sea so I may play with ‘im like a colt in those breaking crusts, and shriek and leap, one heel in front of the other and fall on my back, but he catches me and says
quiet oh child, play slow 
and do not rush

salt in my mane and in his, shivering, quaking in the breeze, my little feet stepping on each other and avoiding galloping hooves, squeezing myself and lying on his back, wet sand smeared on both of us, 
I reach my hand up to knock off the lock of hair plastered on my forehead and my head again on his quarters, breathing with him. He heaves and so do I. I kiss his muzzle again and again and his ears and whiskers and shoulders and braid shells into his tail. 

someone gives me an old bottle of coke, a pack of زريعة, sunflower seeds whose shells I toss empty around us. beach bum child, living on tagine and friday couscous and tourists, with the same dark red basketball shorts and worn shirt, now the color of teracotta glazed and fired.
atai, cold atai that makes my hands sticky. He puts his nose in it and huffs, splashing it all over the old rug we're wrapped in. I watch the seagulls soaring over the salty sea and listen to tales told by fisherman who share my fate. 

donya hanya! the old sfenj seller says as he passes us. one of the fishermen nods and says oui, ce vrai.