Laura Johanna Braverman – Hour of the Wolf

2

The dog stops, intrigued by a young man
as he fills a car trunk with grocery bags

from a market at the corner of Rue 62 –
we turn onto the one-car wide street, and

pass by an ochre stone house with dark
wood shutters. Behind one open window,

a woman sits: white streaked hair pulled
back in a red band, she lifts a cigarette

to her lips. Further down the road, children
play between parked cars, shout ‘Kalb –!’

as we walk by, and a group enjoys gurgling
water pipes round garden tables (so much

for social distancing). We climb the hill
then, back to the house where my husband

sequesters in a closed room, quarantined –
and on a low roof, I see a woman hanging

laundry over wires, her children’s feet splash
in soapy puddles – while below, in the bay

evening sunlight spills pockets of honey on
the sea; the day falls towards the in-between.

3

The road smells of garbage, the sour-sweet ferment of bags piling up –

(What now? Is not a good question to ask: pandemic, economic collapse)

Midway down, after the gated El Khoury property with its cyclamen patches,
trimmed Tuscan cypress and orange trees, with its brass plaque dated 1963 –

I see two figures disappear behind a green wire fence –

Curious, we wait, dog and I, until after they have gone and find a hidden
chapel grotto hung with faded images of Mary and Mar Charbel –

Statuettes too of different sizes and dust-encrusted fabric flowers –

My companion sniffs the stunted candles and a metal coin box with a lock –

There’s much to ask the saints for – today I have nothing in return –

4

The lady in the window faces out today, holds a white phone
receiver to her ear, deep half-moon shadows under her eyes
– a clipped garden rose hangs from my hand. When we reach
the chapel grotto, I place it at the feet of one sky-robed Mary,
then decide to enter the vacant lot by the sea-facing road.

Gravel and concrete patches mix with weeds and clumps of gold
aster, a poppy here and there, pale violet scrubs and foxtails,
lantana blooms; the sunbaked herby scent reminds me of
home-state canyon walks – I try to find the source while the
dog sniffs too, for other things I assume before a man comes
walking in with a little girl – six or so. They like the sweet
white puff that is the dog, and though with the virus I’ve
avoided any kind of contact, it seems unfair in this moment
to deny an introduction –

The man pats her head and I learn the girl’s name is Maria.
As we move along, the man starts sideways Jumping Jacks
across the lot, dog whines and jumps to see a lizard scuttle
up a scarp. Maria scoops rocks into a red plastic pail and
near a scrawny oleander bush, I see a dead mouse – supine,
limbs sprawled out –