Andrew Foreman Poet Prose Poetry

Cyta

The call of the muezzin, drifting over the wall,
mixes with the odors 
of diesel, cooking oil, and humanity,
as I watch a lone kite flying above low houses, 
a smear of red across dun colored hovels,
crouched against barren mountains, 
jagged like broken molars,
and imagined it to be a sun spotted apparition,
the mazy soul of the city,
tethered, wind whipped, straining, 
and I long to sever the string,
turn it aloft to jetstreamed freedom,
high cried, 
tear dried,
childhood... 
denied,
and only barely notice,
the kite, 
torn, landfallen,
twisted on a high wire like a kestrel pinioned,
and the sun sets.

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