I inhale the streets of Madrid
Tapped ash pressed into concrete cracks
From cigarettes hanging off unfamiliar fingers
Of the night crowd in silk skirts and woven shoes
Espadrilles, I think, letting the s slither
and the r roll on my tongue like crushed ice

Sevilla exhales me into citrus palisades
Trees protecting markets in watchful shadows
Where stalls beckon, the pocked skin of fruit eyeing us
Inviting a touch, a thumbnail printed into the pith
Leaving its mark, pierced muscle memory

Edging along the narrowing whitewashed walls of Cordoba
Altar incense hissing, escaping through the gaps
Rising slowly
Towards Sol Invictus
The labyrinths of Andalusian olives
Call us to the riverbank

Granada offers you plucked jasmine to tuck
Behind my ear, straining to hear
Scorned whispers from an ancient civilization
Moorish bones in draped Roman skin
Beating against pomegranate trees
They say come, come, come

The blind man blows smoke from his pipe
At the azulejo-lined steps of the mirador
Recycling the air through my body
As I stroll through al-bai-cin, each syllable pressing
Pomegranate seeds between my teeth
The juice inviting me, when, again, again.

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Zainah Usman is a writer and artist in Fort Worth, TX. Her work has appeared in Flare Lit and Prosetrics magazine. You can find her on Instagram at @zainahu