They seem to be flying,
their burquas black wings
as they speed from one sand-colored house
to the next, dark angels
bringing light.

They sit with the other women,
faces uncovered.
Don’t be afraid – it is your duty to vote,
they tell themselves and each other.
What is there to lose?

Stones, walls, stares of men
like hot coals.
In the houses, pots of steaming lentils,
flat bread baking;
dust under fingernails, toes bound
in strips of hide.

Outside, guns
and the blood red fruit.

Raging Dove