Bob Ward
Berber Woman
Tunisia, 2014
Rising from her doorstep
where she’s been plaiting
roughly scavenged grass,
she coaxes us inside.
Her home seems all stairs
and curtained cubby-holes
for nomads come to ground
in a hill-top refuge.
Under shade on a flat roof
she offers us fresh bread
to dip in a pool of honey
suffused with thyme.
The yoke of her straight shift
boasts devoted needlework
and her ever-eager smile
radiates golden teeth.
While her husband’s rhetoric
makes out she’s the boss,
she signals us a giggly
denial behind his back.