Marra

The kettle whistles,
submission in it's belly,
the sound,
a pure, wild hollering  
to a body  
that could not withstand the heat  
without disposing  
some element of water  
from pipe as if sweat,
lingering on everything,
touching metal and stone.
Her hand,
without fear or hesitation, wields it,
as if a dream from which witches  
would not wake,
she licks her palm,
ties it off,
seared, rotten flesh returned  
to its firstborn state.  
And I watch her
the shawl falling low  
upon unguarded shoulder,
the thigh exposed  
beneath a desert whirl of cloth,
long to protect her
with what little skills I have,
quick hearing, seer's insight,
towering above the skyline
but incomparable to her pyramids  
of coarse and cut throat power -
it isn't enough.
She pours our tea
and enraptured,
shielding in the catacombs
of a city we bear and dread,
we contemplate how to survive  
yet another barrenous sandstorm.